


The Keg-King of Elfland's Sword

by neonlaynes (Koru), peterqpan



Series: Harringrove Works [14]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Edwardian romance, Fairies, Happily Ever After, M/M, Not a big part of the plot, Swords, Trans Character, Trans Steve Harrington, Vaguely a retelling of season two, but present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koru/pseuds/neonlaynes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterqpan/pseuds/peterqpan
Summary: Billy Hargrove and his sister travel to a small town where mysterious, magical dangers are threatening the populace--and he has his own agenda, as well, which is derailed a bit when he meets Steve Harrington at a ball the first night.Billy’s horse sauntered to the edge, facing the spray, and his mouth fell open.  He stared at the enveloping partial dome of moss-covered rock towering over the lake to his left, and the tiny island ahead and to the right.  It was overwhelmed by the roots of a massive tree covered in white flowers.  One gnarled branch bore a lantern, lighting up the edges of the wall of mist rising from the lake.REWRITTEN for clarity and to add a few scenes!  I didn't delete anything.  Have some fairies, and swordfighting, and Edwardian romance.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Harringrove Works [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003
Comments: 260
Kudos: 66





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ihni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy Hargrove and his sister travel to a small town where mysterious, magical dangers are threatening the populace--and he has his own agenda, as well, which is derailed a bit when he meets Steve Harrington at a ball the first night.
> 
> _Billy’s horse sauntered to the edge, facing the spray, and his mouth fell open. He stared at the enveloping partial dome of moss-covered rock towering over the lake to his left, and the tiny island ahead and to the right. It was overwhelmed by the roots of a massive tree covered in white flowers. One gnarled branch bore a lantern, lighting up the edges of the wall of mist rising from the lake._
> 
> I signed up for the Harringrove Big Bang several chapters into my fic _Strangest_ , and decided to do something as different from canon-divergent AU as I could think of, so have some fairies, and swordfighting, and Edwardian romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely art by @neonlaynes to be added soon!

It wasn’t like the dances in New South Wales, nor yet was it like the ball Billy had attended in London, where everyone had seemed to blur together in endless lines of pearl buttons and curly white wigs. His first sight of Hawkins society was a confusion of colors and heights—the person offering to take his coat, he realized, pulling his eyes from the constellations of candles, was at least partly horse, and clapped their hooves over it, bowing. He bowed back, pulling Max forward through the doorway—she was as wide-eyed as he, her gaze catching on a woman floating near the punch bowl with a face either covered in moss, or made of it. 

Billy wondered, watching the dancers, whether he could be less careful here—whether iron was more easily avoided, and he could apply himself at a stranger’s dinner table without burning his hands. The keys at the inn—where they’d flung their dinner clothes on and their baggage anywhere in an excitable flurry—had been iron, and he’d dropped them twice before Max took them, rolling her eyes.

He suspected there would be no such dangers here, in a house where the footmen greeting the carriages outside were horses themselves, formed of water. In the center of the room, surrounded by the most candles—and, he noted, after some consideration, _ floating flames  _ with no visible source—were two empty ornate chairs, like thrones. Between them was a huge  _ head,  _ cut and seared bloodless from some hairy, fanged, one-eyed beast, on oilcloth, and he registered how many of the dancers had bandages, and torn clothes. 

He’d stand out, he realized, smug in the knowledge that his new ocean-blue tailcoat brought out his eyes, and the embroidered brown brocade of his waistcoat complemented it perfectly. As he was congratulating himself on his lack of cravat, and the unbuttoned shirt that exposed his collarbones, the dance shifted to pairs. 

A young man with a bloodied scrape across his face, a flower crown, and a wide grin spun his partner down the room. Billy stumbled, cataloguing fine shoulders under the torn and bloodstained shirt, collarbones gleaming with sweat. 

Billy’s arm and shoulder pulled nearly asunder as Max yanked him, wide-eyed and wandering towards a person whose silvery ruffles matched their wheeled ambulatory device. Billy glanced at her, then back to the dancer, whose teeth and eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “I need that arm, give it,” he whispered, “I—I have to—dance—”, he trailed off, yanking at Max’s grip on his arm. 

Her jaw firmed. “Stop gawking,” she hissed. “You look like a pillock. _ I  _ want to talk to that person about their _ wheels.  _ Alas, we should really greet the sheriff. We’d be kicking our heels in our rooms at the inn if he hadn’t invited us, Billy—” 

“Right now, I have to go dance with _ him.” _ Billy pointed, and Max stood on her toes, still a head shorter than he, until he lifted her by her securely corseted waist, and she kicked out. “The one dancing. Everyone’s watching him.”

“You’ll have _ time after— _ Billy!” She squirmed, growling like a trapped fox. “I’m _ fourteen,”  _ she snarled, her cheeks reddening. “You can’t put me on your _ shoulders,  _ Billy, it’s a _ ball—” _

“I’d suffocate in petticoats,” he told her, and she snorted a laugh, then smacked his head. 

“Oh, I see him! There, with the—ah, the flowers on his head? He’s dancing with someone?”

“With the flowers,” he agreed, “—and the smile.” The grin was heady in the heat of the room, and Billy took a steadying breath. It didn’t help—everything smelled strange and exciting, unlike any ball he’d ever attended, the air full of the oils for the whirring machinery helping a woman with a fishtail dance, and the smell of the burned flesh of the beast on the dais, and the garlanded flowers. 

Max folded her arms, comfortable with the corset boning supporting her weight in his hands. “You could, someday, dance with _ me  _ when you escort me to a party.”

“I require the thrill of the chase,” Billy told her, and she snorted unbecomingly, like a horse, then reached behind her shoulder to knock on his head.

“...at least turn around a few times so I can search. Mr. Hopper did send a sketch. There can’t be a _ great  _ many blue men here tonight.” 

Billy had agreed when they opened the letter, but here in Hawkins—where the Hunt Ball celebrated not a stag or boar caught for the feast, but victory over a one-eyed beast whose head was the size of a horse—he wasn’t as sure. 

Max patted his hand. “Turn a quarter turn to the right,” she ordered, and he shuffled obediently. “Again!” She pointed, as though she stood on the prow of a ship, and he laughed, spinning slowly with his sister’s feet swinging against his knees until she yelled, pointed, and smacked his head. He sat her back on her feet, but she held onto his jacket. 

“Take me over there, your right respectable _ rudeness.  _ We can ask about your dancer.”

“No need.” Billy allowed himself to be dragged away, eyes on the spinning white flowers and gleaming dark hair. “I’ll ask him myself.”

“What if he’s _ married?”  _ She rolled her eyes, and nearly jerked Billy’s shoulder out of its socket when the idea spurred him towards the dancing again. “Walk, idiot. If he’s married, he won’t be less or more so in the time it takes to greet Mr. Hopper. Don’t make me go alone, he’ll think I’m a lost parcel.”

“You are,” Billy mumbled, straightening his tailcoat. “I should have left you in the train station where I found you. How do I look,” he muttered, frowning down, and she groaned loudly, putting an arm through his and dragging him through the crowd to see a man about his father’s age, and blue. He looked as though he half thought they were entertaining—after watching Billy progress across the room like an untrained dog on a lead—and half wished they’d leave him to his conversation with a tiny dark-eyed woman who kept laughing, tears in her eyes.

Billy blinked at them, noting the small woman’s pink hand on the sheriff’s blue one, and the man’s smirk widened. Max kicked Billy’s leg, aiming unerringly at the bone. “Sher—Mr. Hopper?” he tried, saving his revenge for later. 

“I am, and this is Ms. Byers.” Mr. Hopper nodded at the small woman, and she blinked at them, laughing again, and wiping her eyes. “I beg your pardon,” she whispered. “I’m a bit...overwrought.”

“Ah,” said Max, freezing in place, and Billy rescued her with a smile he’d checked in the mirror. 

“Mr. William Hargrove and Ms. Maxine Mayfield,” he said, offering Ms. Byers a hand—her fingers trembled against his—then shook Mr. Hopper’s, as Ms. Byers shook with Max. “May we get you anything? Punch?” he asked, ignoring Max rolling her eyes.

“No,” Ms. Byers said, smiling. “I’m overwhelmed by happiness. My boy is home tonight, thanks to the Hunt.”

“Is he?” Billy asked, lost, and the sheriff nodded to the great head on the dais.

“They brought home more than one trophy tonight. They rescued two of the town’s children,” he said, glancing towards the group of bandaged and bloodied dancers.

Ms. Byers took a deep, shaky breath, and asked Max how far they’d come. 

“New South Wales,” Max told her, then, “Australia,” when she cocked her head. 

“...you’re young, for such a long journey,” Ms. Byers' gaze lowered, and her eyes welled up again. She cleared her throat. “I h-hope you are enjoying it?”

“...we are,” Billy tried to reassure her, feeling the conversation had headed onto shaky ground. 

“I received word only of Ms. Mayfield,” Mr. Hopper said, raising his eyebrows. “I am relieved to see her accompanied on such a long voyage. But your father worked here, once upon a time. I am surprised he didn’t write about you.” 

Billy bit his tongue on an explanation of his father’s low regard.

“I am grateful for my brother’s company.” Max gave her most even and insincere smile, “—as it would be hazardous, for one of my youth, travelling alone.”

“We are relieved you have him,” Ms. Byers said, her eyes searching the room. “It is not safe, alone, always. Though the Hunt does its best.”

“I am here as her shield.” Billy patted his belt, where his sword would hang, and he saw that she took his meaning. 

“Get much use, does it?” Mr. Hopper asked, his brows drawing together. “I’ll take no issue with a hand raised against the wilds, but we’ve had too many fights, as of late.”

“I’ll keep him in line,” Max promised, glancing up and elbowing Billy when his gaze strayed back to the dance floor. 

“How _ old  _ are you?” Ms. Byers whispered to Max, who set her shoulders.

“Nearly only five years, and I’ll be twenty!” she said, and the sheriff looked as though he very much wanted to laugh. He squeezed Ms. Byers’ hand, and Ms. Byers swallowed, dabbing her eyes with the kerchief she had wadded up in her other hand. 

“I’m glad you’re not alone,” she told Max. “If your mother could see you, she would know not to be worried. Your brother loves you very much.”

Billy readied a smile, then startled as Max grabbed his hand in both her lily-white gloves and squeezed it like she was juicing a lemon. He tried to shake her off, squeezing his lips together over language inappropriate for a ball, and Max narrowed her eyes at Ms. Byers.

“More than my mother does,” Max said, in the tone of someone throwing down a gauntlet, and Ms. Byers’ face fell. 

“I’ll keep her safe and well,” Billy promised, and Max huffed a sigh. 

“I don’t need _ minding,”  _ she hissed, and Billy thumped his side into hers, making her stagger. 

“The dragon-craft that brought us was only constructed last year,” Billy began, and that was Max distracted, explaining its speed to a smiling Ms. Byers. She got distracted, as usual, describing her continued attempts—thwarted by crew—to climb the rigging, and speak to the dragon. 

Billy listened with a smile, his mind half soaring between shining ocean waves and gleaming dragon scales, and half watching the dance floor, where his flower-crowned target spun and laughed, after fighting a monster to rescue a child. When he heard the word “pirate,” he rolled his eyes, imploring, “Good sheriff, as a man of the law, try to discourage my sister. She’s never more than three dull conversations from stealing a dragon ship and raising a flag with a skull and crossed swords.”

“A temptation shared by us all,” the sheriff replied, _ toasting  _ her, and Billy made a fist and thumped it on the top of her head.

“Look, now you’ve corrupted _ him.” _

“I would never!” Max grinned. “We saw the Pirate Queen, you know.”

“We _ may have done,”  _ Billy interrupted, sighing. “At the very limit of our telescope, we saw a  _ dark blotch—” _

“She was standing on her dragon’s head,” Max said, twining her fingers together, and stretching, her eyes focused on visions of piracy.

“Every _ hour  _ it was the Pirate Queen, listen.” Billy yanked the chain of his keepsake out of his shirt, and held up the battered shell, despite Max trying to smack it out of his hand. Her cheeks were reddening until they nearly competed with Ms. Byers’ gown. Billy held it out of her reach, and ran his thumb around the edges, and Max’s voice came out with the watery echoes of low-quality keepsake enchantment. 

“There, that’s her,” echo-Max said. “There! Billy! Billy, it’s—oh. Oh, no, it’s—it’s not.”

Echo-Billy’s voice joined her. “Max, that’s an albatross.”

“No, wait! I see her! I see her now!” echo-Max cut off, muffled, as actual-Max climbed her brother like a tree, grabbing the keepsake. She dropped to the floor, feet wide-set, her arm up to guard, and Billy laughed, raising his hands.

“You’ve disarmed me. Return my keepsake, fierce Amazon, I’ll keep your secrets close.”

“I’ll record something over it first,” she hissed. “Something _ flatulent.” _

“Give it back,” he pleaded, circling her and grinning. 

Max tossed her head, crossing her arms. “Because it was your mother’s. I’ll surrender it for her sake, not yours.” She held it out by the chain, and he put it back on.

Ms. Byers was staring at it. “I suppose your mother's message was too—familiar? That you would erase it?”

Billy laughed, clearing his throat, and Max rescued him.

“She gifted only the keepsake, it came with no message. If it had,” she confided, cocking her head to grin up at him, “—he would not have filled its chamber with my nonsense about an albatross. I would be _ safe  _ from his  _ brotherly abuses.” _

Ms. Byers was laughing, finally, still wiping her eyes, when a thin, pale boy walked up next to her, and she beamed at him, throwing both arms around his waist and hauling him into her lap so he kicked and giggled. They both made soft gulping noises, sniffling, and her fists clenched in the shoulders of his jacket.

The sheriff watched, his face set, then frowned at Max and Billy. “Will Byers,” he said, and they nodded, exchanging uncertain glances. “They were lost in the woods,” he told them, “—and ran into the fachan.” He pointed to the head on the dais, and Max grimaced, wide-eyed, just as the music leapt again, and a girl about Will’s age ran up, stumbled to a halt next to the sheriff, and eyed Max and Billy suspiciously. Ms. Byers beamed at her, as little Will grabbed both the new girl and his mother, and demanded a dance.

As another reel started, Billy leaned close to Max’s ear. “Do I look _ as well as I may,”  _ he whispered out of the side of his mouth, watching the dancer, whose friends were carrying him around, and whooping war cries. He heard yells of “Wheeler!”, “Byers!”, and “Buckley!” and wondered which he was.

“I beg your pardon, Ms. Byers,” Max sighed, “—my brother has seen someone on the dance floor, and he’s having heart palpitations.” Ms. Byers snickered, steadying her hands on her glass of punch, as Max looked Billy up and down, then smacked his shoulder until he was low enough for her to assess. She pinched his cheeks a few times to redden them—he batted her away, laughing—and pulled forward some of the curls he’d carefully combed back and tucked to hide the almost-points of his ears. “Bite your lips hard ‘til you get over there, so he’ll want to kiss you,” she advised, and pushed him back. Ms. Byers was cackling into Mr. Hopper’s shoulder, but Billy ignored them, bouncing his heels to try and track the bright-eyed dancer. 

By the time he’d sidled through the crowd, the flower crown was twirling again on the dance floor, its bearer laughing with—Billy tore his eyes away to inspect the partner—a human woman, he thought, though her ears looked rather pointed, from across the dance floor, and through the largest flower crown. He couldn’t tell whether the crown had antlers, or she did. 

“Thomas Hagen,” said a voice in his ear, and Billy smirked to cover his start, turning to see a freckled grin. “But Hagen _ ‘the Elder’ _ s are everywhere, so Mr. Thomas, to most." He followed Billy's gaze to the dancers. _ "You  _ are watching  _ Harrington.” _

_ Am I, now,  _ Billy thought, raising his eyebrows at the memory of the name in his father’s leftward slanting script. “William Hargrove,” he introduced himself. "Billy, to most." He cocked his head, letting his gaze drift back to the dance floor. His target careened his partner with the headdress towards the musicians, spinning away every time at the last minute, and no one faltered, though all were laughing.

“Those two fill most of each other’s dance cards,” Thomas told him, and Billy nodded, watching the partner crouch, jump, and get spun over Harrington’s head. He’d shed his jacket, if he’d ever worn one, and rolled up his sleeves, so the muscles of his arms shone in the candlelight. The flowers, up close, were tiny and white, and also speckled with blood. Billy hoped it belonged to the monster, imagining Harrington swinging his sword through its neck.

“...Steve’s in love with her,” Thomas tried again, and Billy nodded again, appreciating the angle the light had on flowers, and gleaming dark hair, and tight, gleaming leather breeches. “He won’t _ want  _ you.” Thomas punched his shoulder, and Billy raised his eyebrows, glancing over, and considering whether it was worth punching back. 

“Hasn’t said so yet,” Billy replied, rolling his shoulders as the music came to a close. He angled himself to intercept the blur of golden waistcoat, flower crown, and bloodied face he could see through the crowd. 

After sidling through what was probably the entire population of Hawkins, Billy spotted his dancer again. He finally got in front of Harrington by the punch, and took a deep breath, his eyes following a trickle of sweat down the side of the man’s face. It dripped into the unbuttoned neck of his shirt, and Billy shut his mouth and swallowed, nearly having drooled. “Dance with me,” he blurted. “...Billy Hargrove. I'm.”

Harrington had just tipped in a mouthful of punch, but he held out a hand, swallowed, and wiped his mouth. “Steven Harrington.”

Billy was watching the wetness of the punch on his lips. “...Mr. Harrington. May I have this dance? Or any.”

“Why not,” Harrington laughed, chugging another glass of punch, and then took Billy’s hand in his, cold and damp from the punch glass, and dragged him back to the dancing.

The complex pattern kept whirling Harrington away, but he kept returning to grab Billy’s hands and spin him around, all smiles and shining eyes and warm muscles under Billy’s hands as the room spun around them. Billy breathed in the smell of white flowers, and felt dizzy. 

The next dance the antlers returned, and Billy wandered off to the punch, took a deep, steadying draught, and remembered he had a sister, because she punched him in the side.

“Max,” he wheezed. 

“My thanks for escorting me to the ball, sweet brother.” She raised her eyebrows, and took his glass of punch. “I have appreciated your company at every divine moment. Ms. Byers said to watch the punch, by the by. Since they ride out on the morrow, it was supposed to be all sugar and mint, but that just means everyone with a flask dumps it in. She said by an hour in, it’ll be alcohol enough to fuel a dragon ship. When are we going to dance?”

“I can still smell flowers.” Billy watched for the flower crown, and Max groaned.

“What are you _ doing?  _ Did you even get his name? Make sure when you’re walking towards him, it isn’t through a  _ road.”  _

Billy laughed, shoving her head down. She flailed, nearly spilling the punch, and he mussed her hair. “I’m not—”

“Or into a _ river.  _ You’d probably forget to swim.” She held the sloshing glass of punch at a wary arm’s length with both hands, glowering up at him.

“I’ll push _ you  _ in the river,” he growled, swiping a hand at his cup again, “—and I did get his name, as it happens. It’s, ah. It’s Harrington.”

“How’d you _ know?”  _ She blinked up at him, and automatically took a swig of the punch, before coughing. “Dear god.” She wiped her eyes. “—that’s not for fueling engines, it’s for cleaning them. How’d you know it was him? You already got a dance with him?”

“I…” Billy swallowed, yanked the cup back, and drained it. “I didn’t know it was him. I can’t—it won’t work, anyway. He’s engaged, or as good as. The one with the antlers. I’ll just—I’ll have to write...home.” He took a deep breath, staring into the cup. “Tell him I failed.”

Max rocked sideways, thudding her shoulder into his ribs. “You did get a dance with him. That doesn’t sound hopeless.”

“It was never going to work—” he hissed back, and then the music stopped abruptly, with the musicians joining in cheering and clapping with the crowd, as the floor cleared around Ms. Byers. She was carrying Will, flailing and giggling, to one of the thrones, while the girl they’d seen earlier furtively approached the second. A thin woman waved and cheered at the second child, who flashed a smile.

“Come sit with me, this chair is huge!” Will Byers yelled, and his mother kissed his cheek, squeezing him so hard he squeaked. The other child nodded, setting her jaw determinedly, and skirted around the enormous severed head. Her nervous glances were fixed more on the crowd than the dead monster. 

Harrington and his antlered partner stepped up next to Ms. Byers to lift the chair, and the two children held hands, waving. Another few people ran out of the restless crowd, all bandaged in various places, and helped lift the chair, as Will whooped.

“...I should have run out,” Billy told Max, watching, and she snorted. 

“I think it’s invitation only.”

“Maybe he needs help. Maybe he needs me to carry _ him—”  _

She smacked his thigh, and he snickered. 

Once the chair was aloft, they carried it around, amidst whoops, and whistles, and drunken shouts like, ‘King and Queen of the Hunt Ball!’, ‘Welcome home!’, and ‘So glad you’re safe!’ The crowd smacked Harrington and his cronies on the shoulders and back, as they whirled the laughing children around in the chairs. Ms. Byers cried, and so did her kid, slinging his arm over the arm rest and clamping his hand over hers. 

“Whose thrones are those, really,” Billy leaned to ask Max, realizing there was more happening than Steve Harrington lifting something heavy over his head. 

“I heard there’s a bit of contention,” Max whispered back, waggling her eyebrows.

“Oooo,” Billy folded his arms, leaning in closer.

“This is Nan Wheeler’s house,” Max pointed at Antlers, and Billy nodded, listening. “She led the hunting party, and shot the arrow that felled it. She sought Barbra Holland, who went up the mountain two days ago, to visit her little sister’s grave in the mausoleum there.”

“Oho,” Billy nodded. A tiny crab scuttled out from under the monster’s eyelid, and then a few more, and Billy’s mouth fell open again. “They…” He frowned around, cataloguing the bandages, and Harrington’s scraped knuckles and scabbed-up face. “Her friend is still missing,” Billy realized. “Antlers’.”

“They turned around, because of that beast, and in aid of Ellie, and Will Byers. I talked with him after you went off all starry-eyed—he was missing for nearly a seven-day. Ellie was missing nearly two months.” 

Billy reached out and squeezed her shoulder, and she ducked away, grinning. 

“I promise not to wander away,” she told him, smiling, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

“I could lock you inside a trunk,” Billy mused, and she elbowed him. “They ride again tomorrow? Thus the horrid punch.” 

“They ride again tomorrow,” Max confirmed. “Nantlers Wheeler hesitates to fill the other throne in celebration, while Barbra is not yet found.” Billy snorted at the nickname, then opened his mouth again, but Max rolled her eyes, waving him off. “I did _ ask,”  _ Max sighed, “—who would sit beside her. I heard Harrington, or Holland, or perhaps Byers the younger—but it’s the _ Hunt  _ Ball, Billy. It’s not her _ proposal,  _ it’s who—who she decides—who deserves the laurels.” She jerked her head at the procession, and Billy nodded, eyes lingering on Harrington’s biceps. Max rolled her eyes, sighing. She waved to little Byers, and dragged Billy closer when little Byers waved back, his smile gleeful as the throne tilted and swayed with its carriers. 

Billy waved, and Harrington waved back, grinning over.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Max whispered, as Billy kept waving, until Thomas grabbed his hand. 

“Noticed he danced with you. Hargrove,” he whispered, leaning in, and Max leaned around to give him a puzzled glower.

“Lucky me.” Billy tried to pull his hand back, and winced at Thomas’ grip. 

“He’s King of the Hunt Ball, you know? He’s always King. Nan Wheeler sits next to him as Queen.” 

It wasn’t hard to imagine how grand it would look—Harrington in his finest, instead of sweatstained and bandaged, and Wheeler at his side, borne through the air on the shoulders of their friends. He must have made some kind of face, because Max elbowed him.

“Byers wants her,” Thomas whispered, “—but she’s not for him.”

“Little Byers?” Billy raised his eyebrows at the laughing, crying child, and Thomas squeezed his hand until the bones ground together. 

“Who the hell are _ you,”  _ Max muttered at him.

“The elder Byers, Jonathan. Steve dueled him.” Thomas leaned close. “—he was watching her, with a telescope. Sketching her through the window.”

“Why didn’t _ she  _ duel him?” Max wrinkled her nose. “I’d have—”

“Steve found out first, didn’t even wait for _ me,  _ his  _ second—”  _ Thomas hissed back at her. “He fights  _ for her— _ he'll never look at _ you.” _

“I hear you.” Billy shifted to slam their shoulders together, and yanked his hand loose while Thomas staggered. “—do you want to fight with steel, or are you content to whine, and pretend good manners, and gossip like a—” 

“No! Billy,” Max hissed. “You’ll be thrown out. You’ll miss the dance. _ Billy.” _

“Oh, Max,” Billy said, baring his teeth in a wide smile, and keeping his eyes on Thomas, “—in fun, of course, don’t worry—”

“They wouldn’t dream of stopping us.” Thomas snarled back, his grin fixed and unnatural. “An exhibition match, to first blood.” He spun away, shaking his fists in the air, and shouted, “A sword! And a referee!”

“What _ is  _ this place,” Max whispered to Billy, her eyes shining. “Instead of dancing, we can  _ duel?”  _ She watched in bewilderment as the dancers gathered around them, laughing, shouting, and—to her delight—placing bets. “You had better win, brother mine,” she said, rummaging in her pocket. 

“Harrington,” Billy called, rolling his shoulders as the man’s brown eyes met his, sparkling with amusement. “A favor, if I win!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Thomas told him, but Harrington considered.

“...within reason,” he agreed, and Billy whooped, peeling out of his tight-fitting jacket, and handing it to Max. 

“A dance,” Billy said, bowing, “—or perhaps a kiss?”

Harrington laughed, ducking his head as the hunters around him whistled.

“Oooo,” Max whispered, glancing up at Harrington. “Is this...common, here?!”

“Fairly,” he answered, pulling his gaze from Billy’s open shirt to look at her. “Why are they fighting?”

“Over you,” she shrugged, and Harrington choked, coughing. Max smacked him hard several times on the back.

Another antlered person wafted towards them, the silvery train of her dress shining after her. “As it’s my house, I’ll keep watch.” She held out the hilts of two fencing sabres, and looked Billy dispassionately up and down. “...They’re dulled, as humans are fragile. First blood. No death.”

Billy took a deep breath before accepting a sword, wondering whether he’d feel the dull, frozen ache of cold iron—but either the blood he’d inherited from his mother was indeed as fae as the Lady offering the sword, and it was some fae metal, and harmless to him; or else the madness rotting in his blood acknowledged that the sword was _ probably  _ not iron, and didn’t set fanciful pains running up the veins of his arms. 

Billy whipped the sabre through the air a couple of times, eyes narrowed. Thomas struck a stance, his off hand up in a pointlessly stylish wave, and Billy tested his defense. It wasn’t terrible, for a man who smelled more of whiskey with a dash of punch than the reverse, though he was focusing too much on trying to end the duel. Billy raised his eyebrows, dancing away from a wild swipe near his knee. 

It became apparent pretty quickly he was in no great danger from Thomas, who seemed continually surprised to find his blows swinging into thin air, and was beginning to pant. 

Billy spun to the side, nearly into a bystander. The circle was growing smaller, and the shouting louder. 

Harrington was still watching, and Billy paced around the circle, dodging Thomas as he shrugged out of his waistcoat, waving it at Max. She glared at him, rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms. He threw it, somewhat hoping it hit her in the face with a brass button, and then Harrington leaned out and caught it, grin wide. 

Billy pointed his sword, holding Harrington’s gaze. “Wish me luck?” Harrington laughed, shaking his head, but saluted back, and then Thomas was attacking again. The rhythm was easy, once Billy settled into it—simpler than the dances, just practiced muscles stretching and flexing, and Harrington’s grin, and cheering. 

Thomas was starting to look a little wild, drenched in sweat, and when he stumbled backwards, wiping his brow, Billy realized the fight was nearly over. He was irritating Thomas into ever more desperate swings, enjoying his snarls, when a new round of whoops and cheers went up to his left, and the crowd parted to admit another fencer. 

She walked in and threw an arm around Thomas’ shoulder, tossing back a cup of punch, and her curls. She stared, smiling, at Billy, and unbuttoned her jacket. Thomas yowled like a cat, and she tugged her sleeves off in turn, without breaking eye contact with Billy. He couldn’t help but grin back, even as she walked over to Harrington, handed him the cup, and tossed her jacket over the man’s head. 

As the crowd whistled, Harrington growled, trying to free himself from the jacket without spilling the cup.

Billy raised his eyebrows, licked his lips, and dropped his sword on the ground. He turned to stare Harrington in the face, peeling out of his shirt and sauntering over to drape it over the man’s arm. Harrington was laughing, his smirk widening as his gaze traced the sweat gleaming on Billy’s chest. The musicians had started again, in the corner—a jig. Billy leaned in close to tug the flower from Harrington’s jacket, and breathed in its fragrance. Harrington watched, mouth hanging a little open, and Billy spun back to the duel, tucking the flower into the curls over his left ear. 

The crowd was beginning to chant “Carol! Carol!”—and he could immediately see the difference, as she shoved Thomas out of the impromptu arena with her foot. Her stance was deep and steady without being showy, and she didn’t try for the obvious openings he gave her. 

A good opponent was a heady pleasure, letting him show his best side to Harrington, and soon he and Carol had matching grins, circling each other. She was tired, though—her flowing shirt showed the same patches of dried blood as all those who had carried the thrones around in triumph, and she had a purpling bruise along her hairline, from her eyebrow to her ear. The point of her sword drooped a couple of inches, and she narrowed her eyes, sinking her stance deeper as though it had been on purpose. She tossed her sword into her left hand—Billy raised his eyebrows—and wiped her right on her trousers.

“Harrington,” she growled. “Candelabra.” 

Harrington spun to the low dais by the thrones, where a heavy brass candelabra's flames were gleaming off the sharp teeth of the monster. He grabbed it, and tossed it to her. The wax sprayed across her chest and face, but three of the five candles stayed lit, and she laughed low in her throat, holding the candelabra in front of her at arms’ length like a buckler. 

“My lord is fickle,” Billy protested, flashing a smile at Harrington, who did a weird curtsey with all the clothes he was holding, like they were skirts. 

Billy hadn’t had much faith in a lit candelabra as a buckler, but her stance was sure, and it was more effective in her hand than many a buckler he’d seen, turning his blows aside with the slightest tilt of her extended arm. With the candelabra at arm’s length, though, heavier by far than the sword, he could see the barest tremble beginning in her wrist and elbow, and he pressed forward to end the fight. The still-lit candles dazzled him—her, as much as him, he thought, nearly slipping on spilled wax, and parrying her immediate thrust. 

He flicked his saber to cut the two remaining lit candles, and one toppled. Carol kicked it off to the side, swinging around to nick the leg of his trousers, and he spun away.

Max whistled with two fingers in her mouth, and the candelabra tinked against the edge of his sword again, just nudging it the half-inch over so the tip went well wide of her thigh. 

After the dancing, and the hours, days, and weeks of travel, Billy was growing winded. Her blade nearly took his _ ear  _ off, and he scuttled backward, as her next swing scraped across the chain of his necklace. 

Thomas cheered. “Carol!” he yelled, at the ceiling. “Carol, my sweet, my song!”

She was panting outright now, her arm shaking with the candelabra. The people around them were yelling both their names—Max the loudest, with his. 

Billy let her chase him a bit, sidling around the edge of the laughing crowd until she pressed in, baring her teeth in a wide grin, the melted wax hitting his arm and chest as he ducked along the throne to block her swing, and flicked his blade to draw a few drops of blood from her shoulder. 

“First blood!” cried the antlered woman, like a bell, and the tip of Carol’s blade hovered in a blur in front of Billy’s left eye. She staggered back, stumbling and dropping both the sword and the candelabra, but Thomas and another woman were there to catch her. Nan Wheeler was leaning against Harrington’s shoulder—but he waited, watching Billy, so Billy picked up the sword Thomas, then Carol, had used, as it rattled across the floor, and scooped up the candelabra. The other antlered woman stepped in front of him to accept the swords, so by the time he reached Harrington, all he held was the candelabra. 

“I gift to you my spoils of war,” he said, bowing with every flourish he could manage, and Harrington’s grin widened. 

“The Hargrove Candelabra,” he laughed, and Billy stumbled closer, as though the floor had tilted—or Harrington were the kind of celestial body to affect the tides, and the moon, and pull comets around to light his way. Billy was powerless to resist. “Am I your lord or your porter?” he asked, tossing Billy’s shirt in his face, and then his jacket, but his cheeks were flushed, and he flashed a smile. Billy caught his clothes in one hand, and stretched, peeling wax from his pectorals. He used his thumbnail to scrape at the rest. Harrington bit his lip, but drew Wheeler away by the arm, so Billy waved them back to the dance.

Billy allowed Max to pull him away, and thus made the acquaintance of one Lucas Sinclair, a boy who came up and bowed to her. She accepted a dance—though the music was unfamiliar—so he stayed close and showed her, and reluctantly Billy, the steps. After two songs, Max pulled him away into the dancing. Billy watched as she accepted a dance with another boy, and they began to chat. As he watched, she turned to frown at Billy waving her hand up and down at him and rolling her eyes, and then when he made _ understandably  _ offended faces, she stuck out her tongue. 

The boy half-collapsed with laughter, and Billy went to get more punch, ladling a massive ice cube into his glass and tossing back the horrible mix of flavors with a grimace. He was glad Max had come, he decided, again. It was a common thought, recently, but even more deeply felt as he neared the end of his efforts, and his stomach threatened to turn itself inside out every time he opened his mouth. 

When the antler crown—Nan Wheeler—stepped away from Harrington again, and he turned away from the dancing, panting for breath, Billy stepped into the space she had left. “Free again?”

“Ha,” Harrington panted. He threw an arm around Billy’s shoulders, leaning into him, and Billy felt himself flush at the proximity to Harrington’s grinning face. “Little worn out.” 

“After the heroics of the day?” Billy asked, then realized Harrington was watching Wheeler dance with someone else—the same someone as before, Billy thought, possibly, trying to remember. He looked like a soulful lover out of a painting, staring wistfully, and Billy felt a sting of annoyance at Wheeler, for being beautiful, and graceful, and winning love she didn’t value at all.

Harrington shook his head, turning a somewhat stiffer smile on the world at large, and laughed. “He’s doing a better job lifting her spirits.”

“...I understand that’s _ your  _ sacred duty?” Billy asked, wondering if a kiss would get him a meeting of steel at dawn, more serious than his earlier sword dance with Thomas and Co.

Harrington bit his lips, and when he stopped, they were pinker, and moist. Billy licked his own, trying to pay attention to what Harrington was saying. “Ms. Wheeler...lost someone, as well. She is—thinking only of the search, until her friend is found.” 

“...but she sits aside you, as Queen,” Billy offered grudgingly, disliking the set of Harrington’s jaw. "If you're her many times and future king—"

“I suggested the children sit the thrones,” Harrington said with a laugh, “—so she would not have to choose a King of the Hunt to sit beside her—me, or _ Byers  _ there—”

_ Oh ho,  _ Billy thought, eyebrows raised.

“—or maybe she would have left it free, for Barbra. Barbra Holland, the friend we sought. The friend she seeks still. There...” Harrington swallowed, watching the antlers waltz with the elder Byers, and Billy watched the movement of his throat. “There’s no formal arrangement. Between us.” Seeing the muscle work in Harrington’s jaw, Billy tried not to hope.

They didn’t dance long, Wheeler and the interloper—the interloper Billy was grateful for—before stepping away from the dance floor and consulting closely, their faces within an inch of a kiss. 

Harrington cleared his throat, and laughed. “We’re—we’re riding out again at dawn. To look for Ms. Holland. They—they’ll be planning, for that.” He didn’t look like he believed his own words, watching the woman Thomas had said he loved, and Billy put an arm around him. 

“I think I know the steps, now, if you’d admit another partner,” he said against the side of Harrington’s head, and didn’t press a kiss to his jaw, despite the fascinating trickle running along it.

“I’m tired,” Harrington whispered, watching Antlers Wheeler, and Billy sighed.

“Perhaps some punch?” he whispered back, his entire awareness on Harrington’s weight against him, the smell of sweat, blood, and flowers, and the shiny depth of Harrington’s smiling brown eyes. Whatever the strain of perilous lunacy fermenting in Billy’s blood, he thought, it was a marked improvement on Ms. Wheeler’s, for her to have Harrington ready and willing and yet be disinclined to pluck him like a ripe fruit.

“Today’s been a day longer than some years.” Harrington gritted his teeth, finally looking away from Wheeler. “Might need to sit down.”

“Where?”

“Maybe the balcony? I can dance aft—” 

“I hear you’ve a fine hand with steel.” Billy thumped their hips together, his arm securing Harrington as he nearly toppled. 

“A better one with a club,” Harrington said with a grin, frank, before nodding at the monstrous head, “—and I was not unaided, in that battle.”

“How is it there are many here, that are not, ah—” Billy’s eyes flicked from an owl in a hat, serving itself punch with the spidery arms it kept under its wings, and then to the grisly trophy between the thrones. “—that I would not call—precisely—I haven’t met many—”

“Fair Folk,” Harrington snorted. “We are invited to their ball, in thanks for aiding them against that villain. They prefer we call them fair, over mentioning what they are not.” 

“And Wheeler is also...fair?” Billy grimaced, but Harrington just sighed, casting his gaze again upon her. 

“The _ fairest.  _ Really, it—it was she who felled the beast,” he sighed, hauling Billy around to the side of the head, now dripping silvery, long-legged crabs as though they were blood. He waved his free arm at a cluster of arrows. “—her arrows strike true, no matter which, I mean,  _ whose  _ heart she aims her—”

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll empty my stomach on yon beastie,” Billy cut him off, wrinkling his nose. “Let me distract you. Before you fall out a window, sighing into a rose.”

Harrington laughed aloud. “I think...I—I’ve no dances left in me—”

“Then a fight—” Billy leaned to take the lobe of Harrington’s ear in his teeth, letting them graze over it as Harrington startled. “—or a fuck.” Billy smoothed a hand down Harrington’s spine, and squeezed him through his breeches. “Let me drive you to distraction,” Billy whispered against his ear, and felt Harrington’s skin heat. 

Harrington swallowed, staring at him, then flushed, biting his lips. “Wait,” he asked, turning away, and lifting his hand to cover his face. “Wait, wait, wait—you—” He laughed. “The—this set is nearly ended, we—wait,” he mumbled, and Billy nodded, stepping back. 

The music paused, the musicians meandering—or floating, or in one case, clambering up the wall and across the ceiling—towards the punch, and in the sudden milling crowd, Harrington pulled him away. They ducked and wove past the thrones, away from the light of the candelabras, and into a darker, narrow hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you so much for wandering in! Lemme know if you liked my swords and romance--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD**
> 
> (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)


	2. Strange Happenings in Hawkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy finds out more about the town, and gets caught up in an adventure with the bewilderingly attractive Steve Harrington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex scenes, and this chapter contains one, will have their beginnings and endings marked with a horizontal line across the screen! Be kind to yourself, everybody! 
> 
> If you notice anything I ought to be warning for, definitely let me know and I'll add tags!

* * *

Harrington drew Billy along behind him into a small study, barely lit from the light coming through the windows from the Ball. The glass doors unlatched to reveal a marble balcony barely the size of a large washtub, under a sky full of stars. 

“It’s clear tonight.” Harrington’s voice was soft, but this far from the music, Billy could hear it perfectly. Harrington stood at the edge of the balcony looking out, surrounded by vines, roses, and constellations, still within arms-length. 

Billy bit his lips as Max had advised, fairly certain it would do him no good in the starlight, but then Harrington sat on the balustrade, and tugged Billy over to stand between his knees. 

“What were you—” Harrington started, laughing, but Billy kissed him, sliding one hand through smooth locks and under the crown of little white flowers, on the side Harrington wasn’t all over blood, and unbuttoning the soft waistcoat with the other. Harrington tasted of punch and the smell of flowers, and grunted softly against his mouth, and Billy pulled him closer, opening Harrington’s waistcoat and yanking his shirt from his breeches. Harrington laughed, licking into Billy’s mouth. 

Billy moaned, then ducked his head away from Harrington’s answering huff of laughter, letting himself be held so close it was a struggle to unlace the man’s breeches. “Should I kneel?” He ran his tongue up the edge of Harrington’s ear, feeling him shudder. “Or I could work myself open for you. Brace against—”

Whatever Harrington tried to say was muffled, because he grabbed Billy’s head, yanking him into a kiss, and trying to talk into it. Billy laughed against his mouth, dropping his arms over Harrington’s shoulders and leaning into the slow kisses. 

“Sit back against the balustrade,” Billy whispered, unlacing his own breeches. “I didn’t ride with you today. I’m a fresher mount.”

Harrington snorted, jerking his head back, and pulled them over to the doors, so he could lean against the building to slide down. “I don’t want to fuck my horse, Hargrove.”

Billy covered a snicker. “I wouldn’t—”

“I don’t want to fuck _ any horse, ever,”  _ Harrington cackled, slumping against the doors. “What on  _ earth  _ are you used to?”

“I was attempting,” and here Billy leaned in for a kiss, trying to suppress his giddiness, “—to be _ coy.  _ I’ll do all the work, Harrington. Let me touch you.”

“As long as no _ horses  _ come into it,” Harrington said, muffled, against Billy’s mouth. 

“The only horse’s ass here is you,” Billy groaned, but laughed as Harrington yanked him closer, and he fell forward to nearly unman the man with his knee. It was difficult to unearth the small tin of hair oil from his shirt while his mouth was tingling with passionate kisses, and his breath coming quick. It was even more difficult to recover it once it fell from his fingers, and clattered off into the dark. He shoved Harrington against the wall momentarily to take a long breath, and pat the granite next to his leg for the tin, before taking it up, and leaning back in to kiss Harrington’s face. It was awkward shifting his breeches, kneeling with their chests pressed together, but in the end determination won out: he pressed the cleansed pig bladder over Harrington’s prick—ignoring his inquiring grunt—and pressed himself down with a soft noise of relief that, happily, was mostly drowned out by the musicians starting back up. 

Harrington moaned against his mouth, like he’d been taken by surprise, and bucked up inside him. 

Instead of the brisk tussle Billy had imagined, they rocked together, Harrington gentling him with kisses and caresses every time Billy started to move too quick. The blood not busy in Billy’s cock had filled his face and ears so fervently they started to pound, and his eyes were tearing, so he was grateful for the darkness. If he ground his molars hard enough, he found, he could resist saying anything—a welcome realization, as unwelcome exclamations pressed at the back of his teeth. 

“Kissing is good,” Harrington mumbled, holding his face gently, as though Billy were an expensive piece of porcelain. Billy laughed against his mouth, imagining himself valuable. The music trailed round them, under the starlight, and Harrington sacrificed his handkerchief to the cause of keeping Billy’s spend from both their clothes—and then kept him there for a long moment, their breath mixing in the chill spring air. Billy leaned in and kissed him again, swallowing back the knowledge that Harrington would soon, kindly, leave to seek Ms. Wheeler. Harrington ran his fingers through Billy’s hair. 

It was irritating to admit any discomfort, warm in Harrington’s arms, tasting his tongue and lips, but after the musicians had switched from a reel, to another, nearly indistinguishable reel, to a minuet, Billy’s legs were turning to some sort of insensible firewood. He grabbed the handkerchief from his prick and used it to clean away everything but the pig’s bladder, which he knotted up with the kerchief and flung into the ivy, before collapsing against Harrington’s shoulder and straightening his legs.

“And to think, I still have to wake at dawn,” Harrington groaned, and Billy turned to stare at the barely-visible gleam of Harrington’s hair and eyes in the light from the other side of the house, and appreciate the faint shine of his skin. Without intending it, he took up Harrington’s hand, and kissed the skinned knuckles, and Harrington snorted ungracefully and grappled him close, ending with Billy curled against his chest. Billy breathed the smells of forest, and earth, and sweat, and flowers, and buried his face in Harrington’s neck for more. 

“I faithfully promise to wake you,” he whispered, biting at the fingers he’d kept, and Harrington laughed, then took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and kept silent, and Billy closed his eyes. He did it again, and Billy knotted his fingers in Harrington’s shirt, waiting for the axe to fall. 

At last, he spoke. “...You were watching me.”

“How could I not?” Billy laughed, his heart still thumping despite the easy question. 

“Why?”

Billy felt the weight of more words than the sonnets of Shakespeare, without easy means of delivery. He managed a weak, “Everyone should look at you.”

“What does that mean?” Harrington laughed, squeezing him closer, and Billy kissed up his throat, biting along where the blood thudded in his neck. 

It wasn’t a lie _ yet,  _ after all. It would be soon—if he was brave enough to leave, and call on the richest man in Hawkins with his father’s plans in mind.  _ Until then, I just saw something I wanted,  _ Billy told himself, pressing Harrington back with another kiss.  _ Until I leave, and come back.  _ Billy took a deep breath, his throat raw. “D’you want my mouth on your cock?” 

Harrington huffed a laugh, shaking his head in the darkness, and letting it thump gently against Billy’s. “I’m so tired.”

Billy slid both hands under Harrington’s shirt, and felt the slow, dull agony of cold iron as his thumb brushed along the chain around Harrington’s neck. He breathed through the pain, grunting into Harrington’s mouth, and deepening the kiss. Harrington’s legs twitched a little further apart, and Billy pulled his hand away from the necklace slowly, smoothing his thumbs over Harrington’s chest. It’d been years since he’d outwardly reacted to cold iron, and he forced his jaw to relax, swallowing repeatedly against the wetness rising in his eyes and nose. 

Harrington pulled back, lifting both hands to cradle Billy’s face. “How long are you staying?” he asked, leaning in for another kiss, and Billy leaned his weight into warm hands, still shaking from the brush of iron.

“Not long,” Billy whispered back, oddly reluctant to break what felt like a fragile glass sphere around them, where they existed out of time. “Maybe a week.”

“...oh,” Harrington said, softly. “I—I thought—I heard you’d come a long way.” His breath was warm.

“You were asking about me?” Billy smiled, kissing along Harrington’s jaw, and feeling him smile.

“You were so obvious, everyone told me,” he laughed, squirming away from Billy’s peppering of kisses. “I heard you came with your sister. I heard she was a pirate—”

Billy snorted at the picture. “Oh, definitely. She’s the youngest pirate captain in history.”

“I heard you came from Australia,” Steve said softly, and Billy shrugged.

“That much is true.”

Harrington waited, then asked. “...for only a week?”

“My father had urgent business,” Billy tried, feeling as though he was balanced precariously on the truth. “And my mother was raised here.”

“...and then you saw me.”

“The hero who rescued two children,” Billy breathed against his jaw, ready to change the subject.

“So did Tommy, Nan—Carol—” Harrington pointed out, laughing into Billy’s kisses. “Why—”

“You want me to sing your praises?” Billy asked. “Come to bed with me, and I’ll sing odes.” 

“Nan expected us to sleep here, before riding out to find Barbra Holland,” Harrington murmured against his neck, smiling. “—we can ask to stay the night—”

“Come back to the inn with me,” Billy whispered, his fingers clenching in Harrington’s shirt. “My bed’s big enough—” 

Harrington pulled his head back, probably squinting at him in the darkness, then started snickering. “Why shouldn’t I. Why the hell not.” 

* * *

Billy’s quick extraction from Max at the door to his room was disappointingly unnecessary, as Harrington fell asleep still clothed, tipped backwards over Billy’s eiderdown, nearly the moment the door closed. He barely stirred as Billy yanked his boots off, then murmured as Billy tucked him in. He turned his head against Billy’s hand, and Billy stopped for a second to tuck his hair behind his ear and watch him wriggle gracelessly under the blankets. He grunted as he rolled onto his face, and kicked a foot out from under the covers, and then _ shivered,  _ pulling the pillow over his head. 

Billy stifled his laughter, and walked around to tuck the foot back in, rubbing the arch with his thumb, and Harrington hummed in his sleep. The floor creaked as Billy crouched, leaning to see under the pillow, and felt himself oddly charmed by the mess of hair and open mouth underneath.

Rifling through the man’s things turned up only his wallet, and Billy tugged at the ties, then saw lamplight under his door, moving with a shadow from across the hall. He grimaced, watching the lump in the bed as he opened the door—the foot poked out again, and Billy bit back a grin—then went out, latching it again behind him, and crept over to knock at Max’s door.

“What?” she hissed.

“It’s me,” he whispered back, and she groaned, laughing.

“Come in, then.”

He slid inside, and she glanced up from the letter she was penning, and snorted like the little lady she was. 

“If you’re here to detail your conquest, I’ll throw you out the window, my solemn vow,” she told him.

“It’s not really a conquest.” He wandered over, dropping the wallet on the table as he passed, and started tugging at the ends of the ribbons in her hair. 

“No! No, noooo—” she moaned, batting at his hands, and he poked a braid. 

“You’re going to sleep in...all that?”

“It’s my pirate wear,” she whispered, smoothing her skirt, and laughing. Her cheeks went a little pink. “Whales, you know, they’re dark on the top, to blend into the water—” she stroked the ultramarine silk, of her skirts, sleeves, and pockets, and then patted the tiny creamy ruffles from her neck to her waist and down to her ankles, and kicked up her skirt to show petticoats, “—and pale underneath, to blend with the sky.” 

“Next time I need to compliment a future pirate,” Billy said sincerely, “—I will be certain to tell her she resembles a whale. This is my sister, the whale, I’ll say.” She laughed, letting her forehead rest on the blank page she’d started, and he tugged at her ribbons again. “May I unlace you? Or should I sing a jig,” he whispered, leaning over the back of her chair to whisper near her ear, “—and dance you around until you’re too tired to be a pirate?”

She leaned her head back, grinning up at him. “I think they’d throw us out.”

“They can put it on your list of crimes, and pin it to your dress when you stand trial.”

She snorted again, rolling her eyes. “I’m not going to be _ that  _ sort of pirate. I’ll find wicked navy captains, and redistribute their wealth.”

“It’s a good thing you’ll have your hair out of your way,” he told her, folding his arms against the back of her chair. “You know, theft is still a crime. Even if they’re evil.”

“Well, I’d still be a pirate,” she said, shrugging. _ “And  _ a hero.”

“Mmm.” He nodded, and she leaned back to look at him, sighed, and threw her arms up in the air. 

“Fine! Untether me! I can’t get my shoes off.” 

He tugged the bows loose, and ran his fingers through to loosen the braided helmet he’d made that afternoon. She reached up and took the wilted flower over his ear. “...Dustin said Harrington’s elf lover made that flower crown. It might have been magic armor.”

Billy paused at ‘elf lover,’ then moved on to undo the buttons down the back of her dress. “Who on earth is _ Dustin.  _ Did you meet a mining spirit?”

“I danced with him!" Max let her chin thud against the desk, rambling on, "He’s Lucas’ friend, Lucas taught us that gavotte—”

“As though I could keep track of your entire harem,” Billy muttered, grimacing as he fiddled with the pearl buttons. 

“Lucas taught us to dance. Dustin has a water-horse friend.”

“A what,” Billy mumbled, unlacing her corset, and feeling like his experience with horse tack had left him underqualified for the task of a true London party dress. 

“You know, one of the Fair Folk, but it’s a horse,” she said, twisting around excitedly. “He said when it’s older, it’ll be able to talk. More. It sounds--you remember when you were the only one who could understand me—”

Billy fought a smile, indeed remembering the impatient huffs and rambling mumbles Max had made, counting on him to translate for the adults. It was a wonder she hadn’t frozen or starved to death, he thought, grimacing at his child-raising skills. “You had your own language,” he told her. “I think it was entirely profane.”

She snorted, shrugging. “Probably. It’s very trying, learning to walk, and things, Dustin says Porridge keeps—it thinks he’s--”

“It?” Billy asked. 

“He isn’t sure it understands about being a ‘she’ or a ‘he’, or anything,” Max said, leaning her head back in the chair. “They don’t, always, Lucas says.”

“Well, Lucas seemed to know what he was about,” Billy agreed, smiling, and Max’s cheeks flushed under her freckles.

“Stuff it. Go away. _ Anyway,  _ I--then I talked to El, and Will, the two—”

“The two Harrington rescued,” Billy said, sitting back. “Do you want to stay halfway a pirate all night, or will you turn back around and let me—”

“It wasn’t just Harrington,” she said, rolling her eyes, and getting up to kneel on the seat of the chair so he could reach her laces. “That rescued them. Nan Wheeler was looking for her friend, Ms. Holland, and there were the two you dueled, and another woman—she was injured—”

“To save frightened children, they fought monsters,” he reminded her, turning to pull the curtain across the window as she began squirming to undo the rest of her finery herself. He studied a small painting of a clothed dog with a teacup, wondering whether—in Hawkins—it was a joke, or a family portrait. “Imagine if someone like Harrington had lived in our town.”

The rustling of her dress stopped for a moment. Her voice was muffled. “...you sound very close to wishing your father’s head was on a wall, stuffed.”

Billy felt his shoulders hunch. He narrowed his eyes at the dog in the dress, cocking his head. “Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad?”

The rustles started again, and then came a scraping thud. “Oh, don’t make me laugh,” she wheezed. “That’s horrible. Imagine his glass eyes, staring.” Billy’s stomach was twisting guiltily, but he laughed, listening to her stumble around. “Billy,” her voice came again. “Why don’t we...stay here?”

He snorted a laugh. “No. No, we—we won’t be welcome, here, not—not once I finish, but I may find a position elsewhere. I’m good with horses. We could stay closer to London, if you like.”

She sighed heavily, and bid him turn around, and he stepped over to the desk and began to sort out the contents of Harrington’s wallet—two letters, stained from the leather, and a bit sticky, the consequence of having been enclosed there with a paper twist of dried figs. He ate one of them as she shuffled over in a floppy knit hat and threadbare robe. There was a small, heavy bundle made of Harrington’s tied silk handkerchief, and Billy opened it, warily, to reveal a fine pocketwatch. 

“You took his watch?” Max asked, wide-eyed, and Billy huffed a laugh. 

“It’s not his.”

“It looks suspiciously as though it came from his _ wallet,”  _ she pointed out, and Billy pinched her.

“It’s a _ pocketwatch,  _ sister of mine, it would be in his pocket,” he told her, archly, and she kicked his shin with her slipper. “It’s winding down, but it’s wound—he’s not keeping it here for repair. And he’d hardly bring a fine watch on a hunt.”

“He _ did  _ bring it on a hunt,” Max said, frowning.

“It’s new,” Billy told her. “And see, the engraving?”

“It looks like antlers,” Max said, then sighed. “Oh. There are flowers too,” she told him, frowning up, and Billy laughed, tying it back into the handkerchief in a careful knot.

“You might be stealthy enough,” she offered, wrinkling her nose. “You could try. He might never find out—and then we could—you could—he seemed to, ah. Enjoy your company.”

Billy laughed. “Mmm.”

“You’re _ fond  _ of him,” Max whispered, dropping back in the chair, and scooting it closer. “Are you going to court him for real? We could stay. We could  _ live  _ here.” She cleared her throat, lowering her eyes to her letter. “I—I enjoyed the ball. The dancing is  _ fun  _ here. You...you like it, here. Don’t you.”

Billy blinked, watching her, then pulled a handkerchief and ivory comb from the wallet. “I am fond of dancing,” he said, dancing aside from her stab of a question, and Max lobbed a pillow at his head. 

“You know I don’t mean that,” she hissed. “You could touch the swords here! Harrington danced with a woman with _ antlers,  _ and nobody asked!”

“...to be entirely fair,” Billy pointed out, “—she was the hostess.”

“The sheriff is _ blue,”  _ she reminded him. “You could comb your hair back from your ears, here! No one would look twice—”

“How am I thus maligned!” he laughed. “No one would _ admire  _ me?”

“Oh, drown in your pond, Narcissus,” she snapped. “You’re impossible to talk to. No one would be...suspicious, here. Of you.”

“Max,” he told her, bending down quick to kiss her hair, and dodging her flailing arms, “—there is more amiss with me than pointed ears, remember?”

“Says your _ father,”  _ she muttered, and Billy nodded.

The letters, unfolded, were from ‘Nan’. “...I could...try. For him. He says there’s no...arrangement, with Wheeler.”

Max spluttered. “You _ proposed?” _

“No!” Billy laughed. “He _ happened to mention,  _ he’s so—” He cocked his head, watching the fire as he thought, and bit his lips. “—he’s not what his father said. I mean, he’s no great wit, for sure. But he…” Billy realized he was grinning, and shook his head. “...he’s—I can probably addle him temporarily.”

“But?” Max prompted.

“Fondness for me isn’t known for its...staying power. The shine will wear off. He’ll see I’m glass, and no true gem.”

“He might not.” She glared up, jaw set stoutly. “You’re _ much _ more opaque than glass _ — _ " here Billy snorted, and she raised her voice, "...and he was smiling, you know. The whole time you fought. That’s one of your more vexing traits, and he smiled.”

“Oh, is it?” He shook out some coins, counted them, sitting the empty wallet aside, and frowned at the letters. “A trait you _ share—” _

“They had it coming,” she muttered darkly, then swore, and he looked over to see she’d crushed her pen in her hand. He leapt to the rescue with his handkerchief under her dripping hand, and they washed the ink off in her washbasin before it got to her battered robe.

“Too bad, really,” she sighed, brushing at her flannels. “I could have said I was attacked by a squid.”

“A squid of the night,” Billy agreed with a nod, “—oozing about the place, terrorizing fair maidens with his singularly damp visage and uninspired dress sense—”

Max crumpled the inkstained page of her letter and threw it at him. “Until I _ rescue  _ them.”

“Until then, naturally.”

“Write him some poetry, you’re good at that.” She blew through her cheeks with an undignified horse-like noise. “Sing under his window.” 

Billy blew through his steepled fingers, eyeing the crumpled letters, and Max groaned long, tromping over to grab the brass seal she used for letters. She elbowed him aside, held it over the pile, and swung the seal on its ink-stained ribbon, muttering “Finders keepers, losers weepers, finders keepers, losers weepers—” as Billy laughed into his folded arms.

“It’s the intent, not the rhyme scheme,” she hissed at him, as her impromptu pendulum swooped a couple of times under its own weight, then hung straight and still, and she growled. “As though we could be so lucky, and he’d carry it with him. Nothing doing.”

“I suspected not,” Billy sighed.

She slid her fingers under the edge of the letter she’d been writing, and flipped the pages into the air at Billy, clomping over to the windowseat. “I’m sure he’ll invite you to come calling.”

“Harrington’s skittish.” He ran his fingers through his hair, slapping Harrington’s letters back on the table, unread. “He’s wealthy, and his true love is an idiot, who has, to all appearances, convinced him he’s dull.”

“So you’ll have to be less of a Don Juan,” she said, grinning over, and flicked open her penknife, “—or he’ll assume you’re after nothing but his ten thousand a year.”

“I must watch myself.” He nodded, steepling his fingers. “He’s wary of compliments—”

“How tiring for you.” She raised her eyebrows, squinting down a long feather. “However will you express yourself, if you can’t bewilder him with flowery words.”

“He is easily bewildered.” Billy sighed, passing the fire in his circuit of the room. “But he likes to talk, if I draw him out.”

“And you’re listening to him.” Max stared at the ceiling, blowing a piece of fluff from the quill she was carving up, then catching it on another gust of air as it fell.

“Of course I’m listening to him.” Billy paused in his restless patrol of the floor. “Did you think I’d ignore that _ mouth—” _

She blew the fluff back up in the air. “No, I mean, you’re listening like _ you  _ listen, you—” She waved at him, and he raised his eyebrows, waiting. “...you stop, and—you’re doing it now.”

He dropped to lie alongside her on the window seat, crossing his feet with a thud on her chest. “Wake up, and speak sense.”

“I _ am,  _ you’re such an  _ ass,”  _ she groaned, and smacked his legs. 

“Hardly news.” Billy grinned at her. “We’re trying to hide it from Harrington, remember?”

_ “I’m  _ rather fond of you,” she growled, shoving his feet off. “Maybe he’ll be as taken in as myself, when you sit, like now, and you remember what I’ve told you  _ before,  _ and don’t say ‘oh, yes, of course I’m listening, Maxine, but do be quiet and fetch me a biscuit’. ‘You’re so  _ strident,  _ Maxine.’ ‘Are you  _ still  _ talking about that, Maxine.’ ‘Listen to this improving poem, Maxine, it’s about the seven virtues.’ ‘Listening is a better skill than speaking,  _ Maxine.’” _

Billy snorted like a donkey, and she kicked his shoulder. “My best quality,” he whispered, wide-eyed, “—I can comprehend language.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You _ have  _ to love me,” he told the window, peering out to avoid meeting her eyes, “—there’s a written agreement. We had a solicitor out when you were three.”

She cackled, thudding one of her legs in the middle of his chest, and he gasped, then grasped it by the ankle, holding it still while he twiddled the fingers of his other hand closer to her stockinged foot. She held her other leg up, as a threat. “Don’t you dare!”

“We inked your little baby toesies, and pressed them to every page,” he said, and tickled them illustratively as she tried to jerk away. She kicked at him with her other leg, and he caught one of her feet in each hand. “It was very legal. Truly binding.”

“I would never! I’d never have put my prints to such a thing!” She hissed, hiding a grin, and tossing her hair between kicks. “Not—not without reading the fine print. I’d have vomited on you.”

“You were disgusting,” Billy agreed, feeling fond, and letting her pull free. 

“I mean to _ say,”  _ she paused, jabbing at his fingers with the feather for his attention before continuing, “—everyone else talks over him. But you listen.”

“...seems too simple.”

“It worked on me.” She shrugged, and he watched her cut her quill far too short, her jaw set. “You know, just because your father doesn’t—” 

“I shudder to think of a world where not even my sister loves me,” he cut in. “It’s good your heart was so easily won.”

“Maybe Harrington’s an idiot too.” She patted his boot. 

He kissed her head—despite her flailing hand—before recrossing the corridor to his room, and sitting on the windowseat in the dim light of the streetlamps. There were five letters--one in an opened envelope, the tidy script addressed to Harrington. The other four were smudged and thrice-folded, crossed out and blotched with ink, and addressed to _ Dearest Nancy.  _

Billy was half tempted to read Harrington’s confessions of passion, half wary of happening on a line that would emblazon itself across the front of his brain until he saw it in every look Harrington cast at Wheeler. He watched Harrington snore softly, curled around the pillow, and then folded the letters, and returned them to the wallet unread.

In the morning, the light poured through the windows to glow over Harrington’s shoulders, and Billy wondered how long they had, and what Harrington’s reaction would be, waking with a somewhat stubbly face between his thighs. He propped himself up on his elbow, watching the man breathe, and slid a hand down his own collarbones, over his chest, and stroked gently across his stomach: not touching his prick, but imagining the fingers were Harrington’s. When he plumped his pillow for a higher, better view, Harrington’s shoulders tensed. Harrington rolled onto his back, smiling, then blinked. “...oh.”

“Morning.” Billy echoed the smile. “...sleep well?”

Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t need to be.” Billy smiled wider, but dropped his gaze from Harrington’s face before he saw anything else he’d have to remember later, late at night, staring at the ceiling. “Would—would you like the morning to yourself?” He took a deep breath, then gamely laid out his cards. “I nearly woke you with my mouth on your cock.”

“You—did?” Harrington sat up to blink at him, wincing, and worked his bandaged shoulder. “That sounds like a fine morning, but—”

“May I help?”

Harrington laughed. “I need to ride out soon—”

“With your shoulder.” Billy scooted up behind him, unwrapping the bandage to expose a messily split bruise. “I have...salve, or...?”

Harrington grinned over at the little tin they’d used the night before. 

Billy snorted. “How useful it is.”

“Perfect for bringing strange dance partners home,” Harrington muttered, and Billy bit his lip, leaning in for a close look and sniff at the ripped skin. 

He cleared his throat. “There are bandages somewhere…” His room was fairly tidy, he thought with relief, sliding out of bed to go through his luggage, and remembering to shove the letters from his father to the bottom of his bag.

Once he’d wrapped the shoulder, he inspected Harrington for more injuries, ending up seated on Harrington’s chest when he made false claims of being uninjured as Achilles. Harrington laughed as Billy bandaged a cut on his other arm, and dabbed the salve over bruises along his side. Billy found another, slighter bruise on the man’s thigh, and twisted from the waist to rub salve on it. 

“You’re riding out again today?” he asked.

“This morning, except there’s a strangely attractive man sitting on me.” Harrington laughed up at Billy. 

Billy’s shoulders couldn’t help but tense at ‘strangely’. “I want my favor,” he tried, dipping his fingers in the salve again, and rubbing them over a faint bruise at Harrington’s collarbone, where his knuckle brushed the iron chain. It left no wound, as it would were he real fae, but the ache went back through his elbow, making his fingers clench and stilling his tongue. He finished, and pulled his hand back, clutching at the blanket in relief. 

“Go on,” Harrington said, grinning at him, “and thank you, that was probably more than I need—”

“Let me suck you.” Billy bit his lip, and let it slide from between his teeth, running his fingers down his belly again. He felt Harrington’s prick fill almost to hardness, against his thigh, but Harrington was shaking his head.

“There’s no time. Tonight—”

Billy pressed onward, the image of the monster’s head on the dais looming behind his eyes, and Harrington’s bandaged body lying on the bed before him. “Then let me come with you. I’ve a good hand with a saber, I realize it’s not a hunting—”

Harrington yanked him down by the shoulder, and Billy let himself fall forward to brace himself over Harrington. “Why’re—” Harrington began, but Billy cut him off.

“I had a good time, last night,” he argued, watching Harrington's face, “and I’d hate to see you next at your funeral. ‘He should have listened to me,’ I’ll say, ‘when I offered my _ blade  _ for his  _ pleasure—’” _

Harrington burst into laughter, sliding his fingers into Billy’s hair, and Billy barely caught his hand before he could stroke across Billy’s maybe-pointed, maybe-human ears. He smiled up. “Have you a horse, Hargrove? Or will you need a ride?”

“I ride well,” Billy whispered back, feeling his grin grow wide and ridiculous. “As you are no doubt aware—” here, Harrington shoved him, “—but I neglected to tuck my horse in my luggage for the journey here.”

Harrington yanked him down for a kiss, and Billy didn’t mind their unwashed mouths, kissing until the sourness was gone, and everything was Harrington’s soft lips and smooth hot tongue.

Once Harrington claimed a need for air, like a _ coward,  _ and leaned back against the pillows, the morning light warm across his skin and hair, Billy tore himself away to go and ask after breakfast, and his sister. He had hopes he could tell her he was well, and prevent her starting an inquisition, or a crusade, but her jaw clenched at the sight of his sword. 

“You’re going where?” she hissed. “Why? You don’t even—” She stalked over to the door and watched Harrington buttoning his jacket, narrowing her eyes. “You barely know him...can’t you just duel for his hand?”

“I don’t think courtship by kidnapping is allowed, but you make a fair point,” Billy shot back, keeping his voice light, but she kicked his leg.

“There are _ monsters  _ here,” she hissed. “You saw that _ head  _ at the party—and after you left, little Will Byers? He fell like one struck, started calling for the Lady—she, um, the Lady of the harbor, the salt lake where the sea washes in.”

“Calling for her?” Billy asked, frowning down.

“Screaming for her, and a host of  _ spider crabs  _ crawled from his mouth _ —hundreds,  _ Billy—”

“...what,” Billy said, leaning to stare through the doorway to his room, his chin resting on her head. Harrington waved, and stumbled, hopping around in one boot.

“—there was not _ room  _ in him for so many crabs.” She whispered, squinting.

“He wasn’t very big,” Billy agreed slowly. “...And he was taken...where we’re going?” 

“I have no idea where you’re going,” Max harrumphed, stomping back to scoop her own saber from where she’d slung it over a chair. “But I’m coming.”

“You’re not,” Billy informed her, and she growled up at him.

“I _ am,  _ actually. You’re my  _ only  _ brother, and—”

“I’ll be fine.” He plonked his hand on her head, messing her hair, and she smacked it away. “I’m watching Harrington’s back, it’ll require both eyes.”

She grabbed his arm, her brows drawing together. “I’ll watch yours.”

Harrington had folded his hands, and was seated on the bed, pointedly staring out the window while they gossiped about him across the hall, so Billy pulled Max close against his chest, stroking her hair. “You’re my only sister, you know.”

“You’re my responsibility,” she huffed, squeezing him back. 

“I begged a horse from Harrington, and his patience,” Billy told her. “If I ask for more, he might leave me behind. He’ll watch my back,” he called, “—won’t you, Harrington?”

“We’re searching, not fighting.” Harrington told her, sloping to his feet. “I’ll return your brother as—as though he were my own.”

Max snorted, wiping her eyes, and punched Billy’s shoulder. “I’ll practise my swordscraft today,” she hissed. “And _ next  _ time, I’ll protect _ you.” _

He squeezed her fist. “What prophecy are you unleashing, Cassandra? Surely this is unusual. And...that’s not your lookout, Max. Protecting _ me.” _

“We’ll take _ turns,”  _ she muttered, glancing narrow-eyed at Harrington. “It’s not _ fair.” _

“I’m going to scrounge us a meal,” Billy told them both, biting back a smile, and ignoring the heat in his face. “Don’t threaten him,” he told his sister, who raised her eyebrows, and crossed her arms. Billy considered, then turned to Harrington, who was glancing between them quizzically.

“Don’t let her threaten you,” he told him, and Max widened her stance, putting her hands on her hips.

Billy groaned, and ducked out to thud down the stairs, hoping at least to return before there was carnage.

The innkeeper explained the milk had gone off—in tones more dire than Billy would have expected, until she continued, “—and the greens have all turned black and slimy in the night. The eggs were laid rotten. I don’t know how we’ll feed the animals.”

He stared at her. “Can you...borrow food?” 

“All we’ve got safe is salt meat, and the baking—oh, lovey,” she stopped speaking to cluck her tongue and pat his shoulder, handing him a tray of sliced bread, dried herring, and black coffee. “It’s the whole valley, everywhere we can see her mountain. The Lady is angry.”

She looked out the window at the mountain Billy’d seen driving into town. The day before, it had been mostly hidden by clouds, but now it reached up, and up, and he leaned his head fully out of the window, trying to see the top.

“There you go, my dear,” she told him, sighing. “And you’ve got a guest, poppet.”

The guest waiting outside the inn had a quiver of arrows and black bow as tall as she was, and a smirk fixed on Harrington, who made a face at her. “I miss one night, and you’re swept off your feet,” she stage-whispered to him, eyeing Billy.

“Billy Hargrove,” he offered, but she narrowed her eyes at his proffered hand.

“What are _ you  _ doing here?” Harrington asked, rolling his eyes. 

“Your _ old  _ friends sent me. I wanted to make sure you find your way out of his bed,” she told him, and grinned, leaning in to poke a mark Billy had left on Harrington’s neck. “Robin Buckley,” she told Billy. “How was he?”

Harrington waved an arm between them. “No, no, that’s not—no—I can—I can have _ new friends—” _

Billy bit back a grin as she threw her arms around Harrington, calling questions over his shoulder at Billy. 

“Is he worth his price in pounds sterling?” she asked. “Did he _ satisfy?” _

“Stop, stop this,” Harrington said, putting a hand on her head, and pushing her out to arm’s length. “Stop this right now—”

“He’s a smooth ride,” Billy informed her, and Harrington made a squawking noise, flailing his other hand at _ him.  _ “A good goer. A noble steed—”

“No, this isn’t happening,” Harrington groaned, laughing as he backed away down the street. He rolled his bruised shoulder again, and Buckley reached out just as Billy did. Harrington grabbed Billy’s hand, yanking him close, and spun to face her. “You—you have _ no right  _ to fuss, you were too broken to dance last night—”

“I was too _ tired,  _ after the doctor left,” she said archly. “I could hardly know you’d be  _ carried off—” _

“I won him in a perfectly fair fight!” Billy protested, sliding his arm around Harrington’s waist. “Spoils of war!”

“Did you now?” she asked, eyeing Harrington. “Against _ Wheeler?” _

“Thomas Hagen the Younger, I believe,” Billy answered, and Harrington tried to pull away again, laughing and rubbing his face. He didn’t try very hard, Billy noticed, before leaning into Billy’s side. 

_ “Thomas,  _ really.” She blinked. “I didn’t know he’d claimed you, Harrington.”

“Don’t sing the song,” Harrington ordered her. 

“Tommy Porgie, pudding and pie,” she recited in a singsong voice, and he pointed at her. 

“No. No _ —Robin—”  _

She danced away. “He kissed Steve and made him cry—”

Billy leaned to stare into Harrington’s face. “Oh, did he, now?”

“He—he did not—” Harrington sputtered. “I mean to say, he did that, yes—but I didn’t _ cry,  _ I broke his front tooth—and we were both still in short pants, it wasn’t anything like  _ that.” _

Billy raised his eyebrows at Buckley, who bit her lips together, grimacing. Billy nodded slowly, and then couldn’t resist asking, “He’s never tried to—to _ woo  _ you? Throw you over his shoulder and run lightly off? Recite poetry at your window? Are you certain?”

“I think I would remember _ Thomas Hagen  _ reciting poetry. Besides, he’s  _ madly  _ fond of Carol,” Harrington said, snorting. “He’s always with her...when he’s not with me, I mean, he's usually with me.”

Buckley gave a low moan, her face in her hands, and Harrington reached over and shoved her. She nearly stumbled into the river, her boots splashing where it foamed across the cobblestones at their feet.

Harrington grabbed her flailing arm, and put an arm around her as well. “If—if he was _ nursing a violent passion  _ for me—”

“He _ is  _ usually violent, so it’d be hard to tell, I grant you,” Buckley interjected, grinning around him at Billy, but Harrington shook his head, laughing.

“—he’d have _ told  _ me!”

“I wondered,” Billy said, leaning in to kiss Harrington’s neck. Harrington lifted his hand to smack the back of Billy’s head, and then slid his arm around Billy’s ribs again. Billy felt his cheeks getting hot, and pressed close. “He hovered around me like a hornet,” Billy told them, buzzing his hand around angrily. “He was breathing in my ear every time I so much as glanced in your direction.”

“Ugh,” Buckley shuddered, and Harrington blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and finally asked.

“Is...that why you fought?”

“If he kept breathing in my ear, _ I’d  _ fight him,” Buckley said, ferreting around in her pocket. 

“He kept trying to tell me the merchandise I was eyeing was a custom order for Princess Antlers, and I wasn’t to be leaving fingermarks on it—” Billy explained, and Buckley started sniggering, while Harrington sputtered. 

“I—I’m not—she and I—”

“—and I wanted very much to leave fingermarks,” Billy said in Harrington’s ear, making him burst into laughter.

“I wouldn’t have thought he’d _ fight  _ you,” Buckley sighed, wiping her eyes. “What on earth?”

“He liked the punch a good deal better than I,” Billy told her, and she nodded. “He was barely standing.” He tottered around in illustration, and she snorted. “I feared he’d bite, and his jaws would lock, like a badger.”

“That is absolutely true of him,” she nodded, covering a snicker.

“Once I’d vanquished _ him,”  _ Billy regaled her, “—his lovely  _ Carol  _ stepped in and brandished a candelabra—”

“I miss one ball, and an entire tournament!” Buckley shouted at the sky, then pulled away, turning to wave her hands at them, and point at Billy with both hands. “I will have to challenge the champion! You’ve saved me time.”

“I’ll not surrender my prize so lightly,” Billy hissed back, squeezing a laughing Harrington against his side, and she made a gagging noise, trotting along the edge of the stone planter at the river’s edge. 

“I don’t want _ Harrington.  _ I want everyone to bow before me! Queen of the Hunt Ball! Carry my throne! Drop it on Thomas,” she shouted, then trailed off, dreamily, then looked over at Billy. “Today will be my victory, mark you,” she intoned, narrowing her eyes. They were approaching people milling around on the village green, and Harrington walked faster, dragging them along.

“I will fight every challenger,” Billy called back, waving his fist.

“Ms. Holland is _ missing,  _ we’re  _ hunting,  _ it’s not a  _ joust,”  _ Harrington told her, but his face was red and hot against Billy’s, when he pulled the man in for a kiss.

The posse assembled to find Ms. Holland was armed and horsed, mostly. Harrington handed Billy a crossbow, and Ms. Wheeler-of-the-antlers stepped close to show him how to use it—how to insert the short bolts, and crank it, and the length of time it took to reload. She was dressed in thickly woven living vines and flowers, and had a white bow that looked like a living tree, with leaves at either end, and clear arrows that looked like icicles, and fogged the air around them. She wore gloves handling the cast iron bolts for the crossbow, and Billy bit his lips together as he accepted the weapon, touching only the wood. 

He sidled away as she began dropping handfuls into her quiver, and jumped at Harrington’s voice in his ear.

“Terrifying, isn’t she?” He sounded proud, as always, and Billy nodded, watching her swing the quiver of icicles over her shoulder and slide her fingers between a handful of tiny glass vials—from the elder Byers son, Harrington told him, seeing Billy’s cocked head. “He’s an alchemist,” he added, leaning to bump his shoulder against Billy’s. “Those will burst into flame when broken.” 

Harrington himself was wielding a terrifying _ club,  _ longer than Billy’s arm, and studded with iron nails. He spun it around his hand as they talked, and Billy watched the muscles work in his arm, and swallowed.

When they set out, Billy was on one of Wheeler’s horses, his suggestion that he sit against Harrington’s chest rejected. Her horses were small—he’d expected blue-blooded trotting horses, given her grand house, or perhaps tall cavalry beasts, suited for holding steady in the face of cannonfire and monsters—but these were extremely _ fluffy,  _ with feathery legs and heads almost covered by their wild manes. Their colors were patchy, mostly shades of dun and gray, and he wondered whether his skills with horses would get him very far, here, if this was the kind of beast they considered fine. 

Robin Buckley hailed Carol Perkins, the duelist from the night before, and shamed her loudly for losing to this upstart, particularly with no one of importance to witness her shame. Thomas and Harrington both yelled at the words ‘no one of importance’, and Perkins laughed and groaned, holding her head. Thomas sat his horse stiffly, his eyes closed, his hand over his mouth, and his clammy skin the color of the grayish green river. Wheeler swung up behind Harrington, and Billy let his horse lag back a little as they started toward the Lake, watching them talk. 

Along the river, the fog was thick, and Billy could just make out the shape of a mountain overhead. He watched his horse flick fluffy ears, and shook his head, wondering where the hell he had found himself. 

Buckley rode up by Harrington and Wheeler, casting the occasional glance back at Billy. He smiled charmingly, and her brow furrowed. 

When they ran out of road, she clicked her tongue to her horse, trotted up to a crooked picket fence barely standing under the weight of rose vines, and banged on the cottage door. It had hearts painted on the shutters, matching the hearts embroidered on the sleeves of the woman who shouldered it open, her width barely contained in the narrow stone doorway. She looked from Buckley, to Harrington, to Wheeler, and burst into tears. “She didn’t ought to be going up there, your Barb. It’s not right out there.” 

Buckley blinked at her. “Doris, we—”

“You oughtn’t to be going up there. These past days—my dead love.” Doris steepled her hands to cover her face. “When I go near the Lake, I hear her. We all are—Hopper's hearing his dead daughter, we can't—I—I can't—I hear her voice—”

“Oh,” Harrington said, and winced. 

Billy leaned to whisper to him. “Is it...haunted? The lake?”

“Oh,” Harrington said again, frowning. “I...think it is not.”

That reply did not reassure Billy’s imagination, and he wondered what to do, if it was, and whether Nan Wheeler was prepared for ghosts.

“We can row ourselves,” Buckley offered, squeezing Doris’ massive, callused hands.

“Ellie Ives said she saw her out there,” Wheeler put in, and bit her lips. “Barb. That's why we have to go. She—she said Barb helped her, and the Byers boy. She ran the other way, and yelled, and Ellie was able to grab little Will, and—we have to—she _ saved  _ them, so they could escape—”

“We’ll find her.” Buckley patted Doris’ huge shoulder, _ and  _ Wheeler’s, rolling her eyes. “Will you loan us your boat?”

Doris nodded, sniffling, and waved them on, reappearing in a few minutes from a side door wearing hip-high boots. She tromped with them along the paving, as Billy tried to keep his horse from eating her roses, and ended up distracting it with the primroses in the granite planters on the raised stone walks to either side of the river. 

As they came around the corner of her house, his horse tried to get its face over into her orchard, and so the two of them, Billy and his horse, sidled last of the procession in a slow spin down the cobbled ramp. Billy glanced around at dun horse buttocks to find Harrington’s mount, and registered hooves hitting the wood of the docks, instead of stone. 

He nudged his horse onward towards the others. Robbed of all proximity to tantalizing pear trees, it ambled on, and Billy realized they were riding directly _ on  _ to the raft-like ferry, which he had taken for a section of dock. It creaked and bounced in the water, splashing and tugging at its moorings as the horses stepped carefully onto the flat, open pontoon. 

Billy’s noble haystack sauntered to the edge, facing the spray, and Billy’s mouth fell open as he looked up. He stared at the enveloping partial dome of moss-covered rock towering over the lake to his left, and the tiny island ahead and to the right. It was overwhelmed by the roots of a massive tree covered in the tiny white flowers that had made up Harrington’s crown the night before. One gnarled branch bore a lantern, lighting up the edges of the wall of mist rising from the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD** (I reply to each one, so if you don't want the attention, say *whisper* or "No reply, please!" I will go be extra-nice to my friends or turn my delighted feelings into more WRITING! =D)
> 
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	3. Up the fairy mountain, seeking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An arm the size of a ship’s mast tossed aside a gravestone, and in the light of the next bottle, Billy saw Harrington scramble between its hooves, dragging his leg, and then curl under another pile of rubble._   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to anybody diving in! I know this isn't my usual!
> 
> If you notice anything I ought to be warning for, definitely let me know and I'll add tags!

Billy’s horse shifted as a wave thudded the ferry against the dock, and Harrington glanced over to meet his wide eyes. 

He laughed. “The river comes down from the mountain,” he explained, pointing ahead to where Billy could see the peak rising through the fog, “—but the sea mixes with it.” He waved off into the mist. “One day, when I was a child, a wave took the old town. You can see the roofs, on clear days. Things swimming in and out of the windows.” 

A shiver ran down Billy’s spine, and his horse whickered, shifting at his unease. He leaned to stroke its shoulder. 

Once everyone else was aboard—Thomas and Perkins sitting with heads hanging over the water, and their knuckles clenched over the edge of the planks—Wheeler paid the ferrywoman for the use of her boat. She nodded, swallowing, and wished them luck. 

Buckley and Harrington took oars. Billy moved to, sliding off his pony, but Wheeler stepped up beside him, crossing her arms. 

“It would be wise for a human to carry iron,” she said, and he croaked out a laugh, waving away her gloved hand offering a nail. She raised her eyebrows, then drew them together. “...where did you say you were from? How long have you been here?”

“I-I—will be fine.” Billy took a step backwards, and his shoulderblades bumped against his horse. 

Billy’s horse shifted, as a wave thudded the ferry against the dock, and Harrington glanced over to meet his wide eyes. 

He laughed, leaning close, so Billy could hear him over the Falls. “The river comes down from the mountain,” he explained, pointing ahead to where Billy could see the peak rising through the fog, “—but the sea mixes with it, to salt the Lake.” He waved off into the mist. “One day, when I was a child, a wave took the old town. You can see the roofs, on clear days. Things swimming in and out of the windows.” 

A shiver ran down Billy’s spine, and his horse whickered, shifting at his unease. He leaned to stroke its shoulder. It pressed closer to the water, stumbling at the edge of the ferry as Thomas rode on, and Perkins raked her weary gaze over the ferry—the water lapped over the hooves of Billy’s horse as the others shuffled in place, and he couldn’t even see the edges of the wood planking in the press of horses and people. 

Perkins swung down from her horse, still on the dock, and patted its rump. “Go home,” she advised. “Have some oatmeal mush.” She watched it trot away for a moment, sighing, and then stepped aboard the ferry, windmilling her arms as she bumped Thomas, and nearly fell off again.

“...we have a long climb ahead,” Wheeler reminded her, “—and you with no steed.” 

Perkins scoffed, moaned, and grabbed the nearest horse around the neck to anchor herself. “We’d capsize. You _ know  _ Doris only allows three horses a crossing.” 

Wheeler bit her lips together, glancing over Harrington’s, Thomas’, Buckley’s, and Billy’s. “They’re good beasts,” she muttered.

“Our rescue will be _ hampered  _ if we have to _ swim,”  _ Buckley shot back. “And the Lake is...not quiet, these last few days.”

“They’re still _ horses,”  _ Billy hissed at Harrington, who winced.

“They are well used to the journey,” Buckley told Billy, her eyes flicking from the splashes of briny water washing across the ferry, to the jagged rocks ahead.

Once everyone else was aboard—Thomas and Perkins sitting with heads hanging over the water, and their knuckles clenched over the edge of the planks—Wheeler paid the ferrywoman for the use of her boat. She nodded, swallowing, and wished them luck. 

Buckley and Harrington edged around the crowd of horses to take oars, waving their arms and grabbing saddles and furry necks as they avoided falling off the open sides of the ferry. Billy moved to, sliding off his pony, but Wheeler materialized beside him, crossing her arms. 

“It would be wise for a human to carry iron,” she said, and he croaked out a laugh, waving away her gloved hand offering a nail. She raised her eyebrows, then drew them together. “...where did you say you were from? Your family name? How long have you been here?”

“I-I—will be fine.” Billy took a step backwards, and his shoulderblades bumped against his horse. “Hargrove. We arrived yesterday morn.”

“He touched mine.” Harrington’s voice came from the other side of Billy’s horse. “Last night.”

“He could’ve switched it,” Perkins yelled, then bent her head back over the side, and Thomas rubbed her back, watching Billy. 

Billy was torn between annoyance that Thomas Hagen would not be satisfied until he’d bedded Harrington himself, and—possibly—pissed on the man’s leg, marking his territory, and a little relieved someone was watching over the idiot. He forced a smile, and held his hand out for the nail.

She dropped it in his hand, watching his face, and he squeezed it, keeping his shoulders loose, and feeling the edges bite into his hand as he smiled. It always helped that it was a slow, cramping ache. It was a long moment before his arm would go numb, and it would fall from his fingers.

Nan Wheeler’s shoulders slumped as he held it, and she took a deep breath, rubbing her face. “I—I apologize. I am—we rode—we rode out for my friend Barbra Holland, and we did—return with her, we—thought. But it was not—my friend. Not human. And—something has _ happened,  _ someone has—I am jumping at shadows.” She edged around to grab an oar, patting the horses she squeezed past. 

“...Billy,” came Harrington’s voice, in a whisper, and Billy glanced up from his fistful of cold iron. “Come here, I’ll show you how to punt.”

Billy wandered over, nudging Harrington with his shoulder. “My given name?” he whispered back, grinning, then nearly yelped as Harrington’s fingers slid between his and took the nail. He didn’t say anything, and after a while watching him row, Billy took a deep breath. 

_ Not an idiot, then,  _ Billy thought, his mind flipping through the events of the night before, wondering what Harrington had noticed. He bit his lips together, glancing at Harrington’s set expression, and forced a smile. “...you were going to teach me to—”

“Why are you lying?” Harrington whispered, his eyes on the river and the slowly surrounding fog. “Why don’t you want to carry it?”

_ It’s a strain of hysteria, passed from my mother,  _ Billy considered saying.  _ She died in a sanatorium, claiming she was Morgan le Fay. Or maybe it was all true, and I  _ am  _ a mongrel. They say you _ _ see what the Fair Folk wish. It could be this face is fake, and it would expose my lies, strip away the pretty illusion and show the grasping monster I—  _ “There may have been Fair Folk in my bloodline, somewhere,” he laughed, tilting his head s o his eyes sparkled appealingly. “My mother was born here, you know? It’s probably my imagination, but I swear it makes my fingers go all pins and needles, as though I slept on my arm.”

Harrington laughed, nodding, and bit his lips. “Of course. That—that follows.” He glanced over, frowning, and Billy bent forward and leaned in to press their lips together. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. _ Maybe she was telling the truth,  _ Billy’s father had told him. _ Maybe that’s why I didn’t look closely enough to see what she was—her magic beguiled me. People love you, Billy, after all, until they don’t. _

As they neared the bank of fog, it whirled around the edges of the ferry, eddying around the shapes of Buckley and Wheeler rowing. 

“Why are you here, Billy?” asked Max, and he jumped back, nearly overbalancing save for Harrington’s arm around his shoulders. 

“Ignore the voices,” Harrington whispered. “They—they aren’t—”

“Give me the child,” said Will Byers, or rather his voice; and Billy squinted around, then looked down to see the silvery-gray eyes of a submerged horse, its long face floating an inch out of the water. He caught his breath.

“Don’t answer them,” Harrington breathed against the side of his head, and Billy nodded. 

As they paddled closer, the waves began pushing them more off course towards the overarching jagged rock, and Thomas, and even Perkins, grabbed oars. The ferry tipped up, then down to slap the water as the horses started to toss their heads, sidling restlessly, and Billy gathered them together, for once _ hoping  _ he had some magic gift of the blarney. Their bridles were slippery with water from the heavy mist.

He took a slow breath, measuring out the size of the ferry in his head. It was smaller than his room at the inn. He didn’t want to think of the results of six horses, packed between their riders, panicking over deep cold water with rocks jutting up like knives. 

Wheeler’s choice made sense, now, the stolid little beasts taking in the haunting calls and the wave-tossed ferry with barely a flicked ear. He grimaced, imagining the horses he trained even stepping aboard. 

Clearing his throat, he started telling them the first story he thought of, about water. “Weeri and Walawidbit stole the water from the well,” he muttered, glad the horses wouldn’t expect it to make sense, and watching another water-horse breach, close to the cliffs. It had sharp teeth as long as his fingers, and the water from its mane stung his cheeks. “Weeri and Walawidbit stole the water from the well,” he whispered again, stroking the horses’ soft noses. “This was evil, as there were children, and babies, in the camp—but no rain had fallen, and they were selfish, and driven mad with thirst.” 

The horses sniffed at his arms and trousers, and he scratched their cheeks and ears, distracting himself as well. “It was very hot,” he whispered to one with with a whorl on its forehead. The horse nodded, nudging him with its nose. Billy smiled, scratching the whorl, and kept whispering to them. “When the warriors woke, they said, ‘We will bring the water back. We will capture Weeri and Walawidbit, and return the water’,” he told another solemn face. It flicked an ear. 

“There is water enough,” said Wheeler’s voice, from behind him, and he saw Wheeler herself nearly drop her oar. 

“We have taken one town,” said Buckley’s, the effect somewhat ruined by the real Buckley swearing over it. “We can take another.”

“Give back the child,” said Max, and Billy jerked, his heart pounding in his chest.

“How do they know my sister’s voice?” he asked Harrington, suddenly wanting to turn the ferry around. “Is—how—” He stopped to clear his throat, realizing his voice had gone thin and wavering. 

“It is their magic,” Harrington told him curtly, then reached over, and pulled Billy close to place a quick kiss near his eye before returning to rowing in the swirling water. “They may speak as your mother, or someone you met in London. They needn’t have heard Max.”

Billy clenched his fingers in the coarse mane of the nearest horse, breathing its smell. “Thank you again,” he whispered, and Harrington glanced over.

“Thank me when we’ve reached the shore alive,” he muttered, shoving off a jutting rock, but he smiled down at the oar.

As they passed another lantern, on a pole in the rock, Billy wondered who lit them, or if they were some kind of fairy fire. The waterfalls were growing louder, adding to the mist, and the swells under them swirled a bright foamy green. The gray horse to Billy’s left tossed its head, its mane whipping across his ear. 

“The warriors chased Weeri and Walawidbit, throwing spears,” he said under his breath, feeling ridiculous on an open craft in rocky white water, with a near-herd of horses, telling them a folktale. His voice carried on the familiar words even as a rock they couldn’t avoid scraped along the bottom, and the ferry creaked and groaned under the weight. “They pierced the water-carrier—”

“Why do they want children?” Thomas asked, abruptly. “They've never taken children before. That seems—”

“Ellie said they’d done something,” Wheeler whispered, her voice still echoing oddly around, helped by a dissonant chorus. 

“Who?” asked Buckley, and Wheeler shook her head.

“The doctor, she called him. He made her do something, she and some other children, before she fled. She didn’t know what, exactly, she—” 

Her voice cut off as a gust of wind brushed away a swath of the fog, and the filtered sunlight danced over the Falls, plunging over a cliff most of the way up the mountain, through worn planes and windows in the rocks. Harrington and the others stopped talking and stared, for it was _ red,  _ over what looked like a churning sea of blood. The mountain was _ bleeding, _ gouting a ribbon of water that shone crimson in the sun. As they neared it, rowing along the cliffside, the foam splashing around the edges of the ferry began to show a red tinge.

“The devil is _ that,”  _ Perkins muttered, stepping up to lean against Buckley’s shoulder.

“Iron,” Wheeler choked out. “So much iron, it reddened the Falls.”

“How,” Billy asked, and the nearest horse—a dappled grey—flicked its ears.

“What’d they _ do?”  _ Harrington started rowing again. “Small wonder they’re furious—”

The ferry clunked against one of the rocks, tipping, and smacked back into the water. The horses started whinnying, and stomping, and Buckley yelled, “Row, bastards!”

“The water gushed from the water carrier as they ran,” Billy told the horses, and himself, patting necks and rubbing noses. “—and sprang up billabongs, and there was _ water—” _

“To your left,” said Thomas, and then the real Thomas shouted, “No, right!” and Perkins and Harrington yelled, and pulled, and the rock merely scraped along the side, instead of tipping them all into the pale green foam, and the darkness beneath.

“I am Nan Wheeler, daughter of Karen Wheeler, and we are _ almost there,”  _ Wheeler yelled, and then started calling  _ heave  _ ho,  _ heave  _ ho. It would have been funny, except for the voices from the water. 

When they got within a few feet of the shore, the horses all bumped against each other moving toward the stone ledge, and Billy barely had time to get his foot in a stirrup and swing onto one. The ferry tilted down, then back, as they surged onto the outcropping, and he scrambled to grab reins, then realized they were content to mill around, now they were on solid ground. Thomas, Perkins, and Buckley lurched off the ferry as Harrington moored it, and then he and Wheeler staggered onward towards Billy and the horses. 

“What possessed us to put horses on a boat,” Billy muttered, realizing he was astride Buckley’s ride and swinging down. She clapped his shoulder on the way by, and then Perkins and Thomas Hagen leaned into him on either side, still reeking of rum. Perkins’ arm was bandaged where he’d nicked her arm the night before with his saber. 

“Thanks for the story,” she said, grinning. “I’m a fair swimmer, but it’s treacherous, here—” 

Thomas leaned in to say, “That what you did with Harrington, last night? Whisper in his ear?”

“Maybe you should have tried it, instead of watching him from the corners, slavering like a hungry dog,” Billy muttered back, and Thomas spun on his heel, raising his fists. Perkins grabbed him, glaring between them. 

“We’re here for a reason,” she hissed. 

Thomas looked like all the threats in his head were hitting a logjam in his mouth, and then came Wheeler’s voice, and Perkins and Thomas walked by, shoving him so he stumbled forward. 

“Hargrove,” Antlers Wheeler said, behind him, and when he turned it was actually her, and not a voice from the mist. She looked at him a long moment, and he wondered what her magic told her. “...thank you,” she said.

“Glad I could be of use.” He nodded, and watched her stalk by, and up the worn wet stone stairs. 

“Thank you,” Harrington whispered into his hair, leaning against his back, and Billy felt a peculiar flush up his neck and cheeks as he leaned back into warm enfolding arms. “I believe you just saved lives with a fairy tale.”

Billy’s throat closed, and he cleared it. “Ha-hardly. I talked to them. I told you I was good with horses.”

“Thank you for coming,” Harrington said again, against his jaw and neck, and Billy leaned his head back for a kiss, forgetting their witnesses, and letting his eyes fall closed. Harrington stroked his hair, and Billy reminded himself, again, that a man who would take whatever he offered was unlikely to value it—but Harrington ran fingers through his hair, and cradled his face, and Billy swallowed back the urge to open his mouth and ask Harrington to keep his hands there forever. 

He pressed in for another kiss, turning to slide his arms around Harrington’s neck and lick into his warm mouth, salty from the wet spray drifting from the base of the Falls where they hit the seawater. 

Harrington’s cheeks were red and warm, and Billy pressed his thumbs to them, watching Harrington’s cautious smile and brown eyes. “Everyone is waiting,” Harrington whispered, grabbing Billy’s hand, and kissing it.

“Of course.” Billy couldn’t help leaning in for another kiss, smiling, so if Harrington pushed him away, it would be a joke. 

He didn’t.

They finally broke apart at a piercing whistle, and Billy stumbled away to frown up the slate steps at Robin Buckley, laughing as she took her fingers out of her mouth. Harrington pushed by to climb on his horse—held by Buckley—and Billy took a deep breath, trying not to wonder what he’d do, when the plan failed, and Steven Harrington _ knew. _

Buckley waited for him, letting the rest wander on up the slope. “Why reel him in so fast?” she asked, her voice a little sharp.

“...beg pardon?” Billy returned, his stomach clenching.

“He’s hooked,” she said, watching Harrington and Wheeler. “Thoroughly limed. Why not give him a little play in the line? Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight? Why the rush reeling him in?”

Billy blinked back a horrible image of a metal hook in Harrington’s mouth, and slamming his head against the dock before gutting him like a fish. “I wouldn’t…” he started, and she raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure how stupid Wheeler is,” he tried, and she snorted, “—she may…” he trailed off, watching Wheeler walk point-to-point across jagged boulders, and Harrington’s avid attention. “—I don’t—as soon as she snaps for his attention, he’s hers.”

“Hrm.” Without replying, she urged her horse onward.

He kept noticing glances, on the rocky path up the mountain—from Harrington, biting his lip, but returning his smiles; from Buckley, her gaze on one then the other of them—and from Thomas Hagen, who narrowed his eyes, seeing Harrington’s eyes on Billy, and bared his teeth at Billy looking back. Wheeler was running up without a steed at all, and Billy opened his mouth to ask, when he saw her stop, and turn, and hold her hand out towards the trees. A white stag with red eyes stepped out between them, and she swung aboard, saddle-less. The conversation between Buckley and Harrington didn’t falter, and Billy wished—not for the first time—that if he _ was  _ Fair, he could have something to show for it, like whistling a magic steed from the woods.

The path was steep, and worn deeply into the stone of the mountain, so the sides were an arm’s-length over Billy’s head, and his knees brushed the stones, sometimes on both sides. Sometimes only on one, and his other leg dangled in thin air over the crashing waters below. In places, the sides had given way in a rush of shale, or shone with slick moss where they crossed and re-crossed streams, but Wheeler’s horses were sure-footed and cheerful, and crossed stone bridges narrower than their own ribs with barely a flick of the tail. Billy was glad he’d swallowed back his urge to compare their hooves to snowshoes, or ask whether they had sheepdogs in their lineage. His own—he asked, and was introduced to her as Mairead—was dappled gray and cream, and when Harrington saw him trying to befriend her with flowers plucked from overhanging plants, he hung back to stage-whisper, “She’s named ‘Daisy’. It means ‘Daisy’.”

Billy eyed his handful of daisies, and offered them again. “Come on, girl, you know you’re secretly a cannibal,” he told her, and Harrington burst out laughing. She lipped politely at his fingers, flicking her tail, and he grabbed more. “I hope these aren’t her family,” he said, idly, to watch Harrington’s shoulders shake.

When the path widened out, he took the best bloom, rode up, and tucked it in the buttonhole of Harrington’s jacket. Harrington laughed, leaning down from the saddle in a long flexible stretch that made Billy feel _ thirst,  _ grabbed a sprig of low-growing heather, and pulled his horse close to tuck it behind Billy’s ear. He leaned in for a clumsy horseback-kiss that was all jarring teeth. 

Billy nearly grabbed at him when he pulled away. “Had enough?”

Harrington laughed, and licked his lips. “I—think I can wait until we’re on solid ground.”

Billy licked his own teeth, slowly, grinning, and Harrington ducked his head, clicking his tongue to urge his horse forward and away. His neck was red.

“Coward move, Harrington!” Billy yelled, and got back a thumb rudely flicked off Harrington’s teeth. 

By the time Billy’s stomach began to growl for a second meal, the path was turning from a clamber between boulders to a fairy bower. Massive branches draped with moss overhung the path, overladen with ferns and tiny flowers like the ones in Harrington’s crown the night before, and Wheeler yanked some down, weaving flower crowns as she talked. She tossed the first finished one over Buckley’s head, and Buckley leaned dangerously off her horse to sling one onto Perkins, who laughed, startled. 

Buckley bit her lip, and started throwing scones at everyone—they thudded into Billy’s hand, heavy like a rock—and she smirked, watching Billy’s expression, but when he bit in, they were sweet and chewy. He saluted her. 

Nan Wheeler wove flower crowns like she was outfitting an army for war, and watching Harrington watch her, Billy grimaced at the man’s soft smile. As Harrington rode forward to accept two of them, then dropped back to ride alongside Billy—when the trail was wide enough—Billy held his hand out for the crown, but couldn’t quite make himself put it on his head.

Harrington turned his in his hands, trusting his horse to follow the others, and smiling at the tiny white flowers with yellow centers, the same as he’d worn at the ball. She’d wrapped the whole thing with delicate white-edged ivy, and Billy had a wild, trailing thought about winding through Harrington’s hair himself. 

“They’re very sturdy,” Harrington said approvingly, a descriptor Billy wouldn’t have thought of. 

He laughed, sighing, and wondering why Harrington’s assessment of the structural integrity of flower crowns charmed him.

At the next wide bit of trail, Harrington dropped back to brag about Wheeler again. 

Billy listened grudgingly, eyeing the starry blue flowers on his own crown, and Harrington stopped talking, leaned to take it, and placed it on Billy’s head, tugging gently at his curls to straighten it. 

His fingers were warm in the cool, damp mist above the Falls. “Keep it on,” he whispered, grabbing Billy’s hand, and squeezing it, ignoring the sticky crumbs of scone. “They have a magic to them. It’ll keep you safe.”

“...keep yours too, then,” Billy told him, kissing his hand just before the trail narrowed again, and they were forced to single-file. “I’ll try not to die of jealousy.”

Harrington’s shoulders shook with laughter ahead of him. “Already? Are you always so jealous?”

“Never!” Billy called up. “It’s horrific, Harrington, I don’t know what to do! This will end terribly. I’ll wander the streets of your town, begging for stories of you as a child while you marry your lady fair.”

Harrington turned in the saddle to grin at him, pink-cheeked. “As soon as you hear them, your lovesickness will be cured.”

“That’s true enough,” Buckley called back, and Harrington hunched his shoulders, facing front, as Billy realized the man had actually forgotten the entire mountain could hear them.

When they finally reached something of a crest in the mountain, more jagged edges towered above, but a shining grassy expanse spread about them like a lushly carpeted landing in a staircase through the clouds. 

The trees grew smaller, and scrubbier, blown crooked in the wind, giving way to gleaming grass and flowering heather. Mairead snatched a few glossy mouthfuls, and Billy patted her neck, looking out to sea on two sides, and below them clouds and the flyspeck of an eagle, soaring above the town of Hawkins. The noise of the waterfall rose again as they crossed the rolling downs. 

As they drew closer, they could smell smoke, and taste metal down the backs of their throats. Wheeler yelled “Ha!”, and the stag began to run, stopping as they crested the next rise. Billy rode up alongside the others to see a towering, smoking shell of stonework on top of a blackened hole in the hill. Stained glass still hung in the arched windows in what remained of the walls at the top. The smoke was thick enough, still, to coat their insides as they breathed. There were overturned and shattered gravestones scattered around the cavernous black gape in the side of the hill. Arrayed in the shining green grass before it was the remains of a camp, with crushed tents, burned crates, and cannons, tipped and strewn, their bases charred. 

Mairead sidled uneasily, flicking her tail, and he stroked her flank, whispering nonsense. 

Wheeler was breathing in pants, hands over her mouth, her whole body shaking. Perkins and Thomas urged their horses closer to the breach, and Buckley charged after. Harrington approached Wheeler, and Billy gritted his teeth, and shouted a loud “Gee-yup” to startle Mairead down the hill and leave the two of them to their discussion. 

“How did they get those _ up  _ here? Surely we’d have seen a dragon ship from the town,” Buckley was saying, as he approached. She was crouching by one of the overturned cannons, prodding what looked like a blackened human pelvis.

“Ellie said she stopped them,” Wheeler said, thickly, riding up with Harrington in tow. “She—she said she didn’t know what they wanted. They threatened her—threatened the other children, and her mother.”

“And we wondered what was causing the uproar,” Carol snorted, standing in her stirrups to peer into the featureless darkness of the open mound. She clicked her tongue, and trotted towards it. “I’m surprised we didn’t hear the cannons, even over the sound of the Falls. What absolute imbecile would blow up _ this  _ mountain, like it was in the way of his roadworks.”

“We—we’re going _ in?”  _ Billy asked, apparently aloud, because Thomas snorted, and Harrington nudged his horse close enough to reach out and squeeze Billy's shoulder. 

“You don’t need to—”

“No,” Billy laughed, clenching his hand on the reins. “You’ll—you’ll be glad you brought me. I’ll be of use.”

“Wait,” Wheeler said, and steepled her fingers over her face, drawing a slow breath. “No. Don’t—the—the way is broken. This breach—this is not a safe way between my home and the homes of humankind. You could—you could be lost. I will go. Please...” She trailed off, and took another deep breath, turning towards the black emptiness under the hill.

Harrington watched her go, biting his lips, and Billy clenched his hands on his saddlebow. 

“How can I help?” His voice emerged husky, and Harrington visibly called his mind back from Wheeler’s dangerous journey, and blinked.

“Ah,” he muttered, frowning around. “—I think—that—”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Hear that, Hargrove? You can head back, now, you’re useless.” 

“Help,” whispered a woman’s voice, from the breach, and Wheeler spun her stag. 

“Barbra?”

“Help,” came the voice, from the trees, then the ruins above the mound, then all around them. 

“Barb!” Wheeler called, and Buckley grabbed her hand before she could ride off.

“We’ll check everywhere out here,” she said, and Wheeler nodded, wiping her nose and setting her shoulders before urging her stag toward the breach. 

“Robin,” Perkins called. “Steve. There are journals.” She waved a leatherbound book, kicking away a crumbling charcoaled ribcage. Thomas was kicking a skull around. 

Billy swung down from the saddle and went to help Perkins—she absolved him of the name, running her elbow into his gut and issuing a direct order to call her Carol—and they searched through the wreckage, finding a captain’s logbook of sorts, and an unburned crate of biscuits. 

As they read, their horses wandered, bumping noses, jumping and prancing around each other until Mairead was distracted by heather, and planted her hooves to yank mouthfuls. Billy sat on a crate, half his attention on the smoking ruin of the hill and the exposed dark gulf within, the other half on Harrington, who was clubbing the burned wood of the barrels and crates and kicking them open. 

Billy licked his thumb, and flipped through the logbook. “‘We hauled the cannons up with pulleys, and believe ourselves thus far undetected’,” he read aloud, accepting a biscuit from Carol, who leaned her head close to read over his shoulder, chewing a biscuit of her own. Billy cleared his throat of crumbs. “‘Without favor shown by the notables of Hawkins,’” he read, loud enough for Harrington and Buckley to hear, “‘—I nearly despaired of my goal, but the wheel of discovery rolls ever onwards, and their ancient magicks will soon be put to the test of gunpowder, iron, and human ingenuity.’ Do you suppose they blew themselves up?”

“I hope he did. What a cock,” Carol put in, stuffing another handful of biscuits in her mouth, and talking around them. “Found his accounts. He notes down all the bribes he attempted. He never asked _ me.” _

Billy snorted, choking on his biscuit, and continued, coughing. “‘The girl is becoming troublesome. She asks unending questions about the curse on her mother—I have nearly been caught out, more than once!—and it has forced my hand, more than I would like. She now believes wholly that her mother will die if she refuses me in any small favor—’” Billy raised his eyes to meet Carol’s, and she brought the heel of her boot down on the crumbling ribcage until all that remained were bone shards and char. 

“Prattling _ cock,”  _ she repeated, frowning around, then stomping what looked like a human femur. 

“This is—the girl Harrington rescued?”

“I suppose,” she said, peering through the wreckage of the crates. “She would only answer to Will's calls, but when she saw him on Steve’s horse, she let Robin pull her up.”

“Ms. Holland helped them hide,” said Harrington. “Barbra Holland, our missing friend.”

“Hide from _ what?”  _ Billy asked, remembering the head of the creature whose death had been celebrated the night before.

Buckley wandered over, and stole a biscuit from Carol’s hand, beginning a shoving match as they settled side by side on an overturned cannon. “Ellie was frightened,” she told Billy. “She didn’t say very much. According to _ Will,  _ he and El met the Lady.”

“The Lady,” Billy repeated, lost, and remembering the innkeeper mentioning someone similar.

“The Lady of this mountain,” Carol said, her voice lowered to nearly a whisper. “The Lady of the Lake. She...found them. They escaped, and met a monster.”

“The monster you slew,” Billy tried, whispering—it felt silly, with the sun right overhead, but Carol and Robin’s faces were deadly serious. 

“When they blasted the hill open, everything in Faery would have been angered,” said Robin, her mouth quirked. “The Lady would never…” she stopped, biting her lips, and shook her head.

“The Lady has never had her realm broken open by cold iron,” said Carol, and Harrington stopped, staring into the breach after Wheeler with a set jaw. 

“Will and Ellie had a long few days of it,” Robin continued, shaking her head. “Barbra helped them escape—”

“I thought from the fachan we killed,” Carol interrupted, “—but it could have been the people camped here, or—if they were foolish enough to step inside the mountain—”

“It could have been anything,” said Harrington. 

Robin found some things she thought might belong to Ellie, and whistled to her horse to bundle them up in her saddlebag, and Billy was watching Thomas Hagen, who was talking intently to Harrington.

Billy shook his head, and set his jaw, reading on. “‘It is my belief that the girl can open a breach, into which we can fire the cannons, preventing them from barring our passage. After that, she is likely to become troublesome, despite concern for her friends.’” Billy grimaced. “How is she doing? How is her mother?”

“Shite-a-bed _ sneaksbie,”  _ Carol hissed. “He would have  _ harmed  _ her, after all that. Hopper and Ms. Byers are seeing to her and her mother.” 

Billy nodded, watching Thomas grab Harrington’s reins and pull him to a stop. 

Carol followed his gaze. “...fast worker, aren’t you?” She narrowed her eyes at him, and he rolled his shoulders, and bit his lips.

“I—”

“Help me,” said the woman’s voice, Barbra Holland’s voice, _ just  _ behind him, and he yelled, swinging around to see Carol holding her sword on what was  _ mostly  _ a woman, her naked skin lifted with the roots of the grass and heather where she stood. Rusty water poured freely from her mouth.

Carol’s voice shook, but her sword was steady. “I—if you are Barbra Holland, we—” 

“Help,” the woman said, her voice bubbling, and her head slowly bending backwards as water gouted from under her eyelids, and out her nose. Her body collapsed, arcing backwards into the grass, and Carol stumbled backwards, shoving Billy behind her. Another gurgling “Help,” came from behind them, and he yanked his own sword free with a clumsy scrape. She grabbed his elbow and hauled him towards the ruins, just as Thomas, Harrington, and Buckley galloped back towards them. 

“She’s not here,” Buckley shouted. “They’re just scaring us.”

“They aren’t _ doing _ anything.” Thomas rolled his eyes, steering his horse so it nearly crashed into Billy and Carol, and reared to avoid them, shaking its head with an earsplitting whinny. 

Carol’s lips thinned, and she dropped Billy’s arm, stalking toward the ruin. She picked up a chunk of the broken femur, and hucked it after Thomas, and he dodged, laughing. 

“Barbra was visiting a grave,” Buckley said, glaring after Thomas, who was trying not to fall off his horse. “There might be some trace up there, at least. The stairs are gone, but we can climb up the far side.”

“Help,” came the voice, from between them, and Billy shuddered, wondering whether if they _ did  _ find Barb, he’d be able to hear her voice without the skin spasming clear up his spine. 

Their horses seemed fairly unafraid, milling around and munching the heather, but the humans drew sighs of relief as their feet touched stone, and the last of the creeping voices stayed back in the vegetation. Thomas leaned against a broken pillar, glowering at Billy. Carol found a pair of spectacles that obviously meant something to her, and Buckley squeezed her shoulder before doling out the remaining scones as they sat among the graveside statues, and then sat with Carol, looking out through the broken masonry to the sea. 

Billy sat next to Harrington. For a long moment, he watched the scone crumble under Harrington’s nervous, fidgeting fingers. Then he leaned to bump shoulders. 

“Are you making bird food?”

“What?” Harrington squinted at him, then frowned down at his handkerchief of crumbs. “...oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Billy replied, watching him. Harrington was silent, and Billy eyed the sun reflecting off the waves and clouds in the wide horizon, then crooked his leg up next to him on the sarcophagus he’d chosen for a seat, and turned to face Harrington. “Lady Wheeler knows what she’s doing,” he tried.

Harrington smiled, ducking his head. “She usually does.” The low, orangey light gilded his smile, and Billy stared, licking his lips, only to make an embarrassing creaky gasp back in his throat when Harrington leaned in to press their lips together. He yanked Billy close with an arm around his back, laughing against his mouth, his breath sending heat down to Billy’s dick.

He threw an arm around Harrington’s neck, scooting half into his lap and snickering at the avalanche of crumbs, kissing the soft shadows on Harrington’s face, before staring into the dusky orange gleam of his eyes. “Harrington—Harrington, it's barely noon, what’s happening to the light—”

The floor tilted, collapsing sideways into the gaping hole in the hill, and their horses screamed. Billy went deaf, and blind, choking on dust, his body shuddering with the impact of the stones flying around him. He landed in prickly heather, scrambling up to a crawl. 

As his hearing returned, Wheeler’s voice screamed, _ “Nuckelavee!  _ It’s the Nuckelavee, back—” and she rode out, holding herself upright on the stag with her legs. The broken wall of the graveyard crashed towards them, stones the size of coffins shaking the ground. The air went foul—Billy spat grit, coughing, and his eyes watered as he stumbled after his horse. 

Mairead slowed for him—rearing in the shadowy dust cloud—and he calmed her enough to get his leg over, yanking the reins in a tight circle until she put all four hooves on the ground, turning gladly towards the path from the ferry. He saw Carol, running flat-out behind Thomas, reach for Thomas' hand as he swung astride their horse, but he spurred his beast onward. She nearly fell, screaming after him, when Buckley rode up next to her, holding an arm out to help her swing up to safety. 

Billy stood in his stirrups, looking around for Harrington. 

Wheeler’s stag shone white in the black gouts of breath the creature was spewing, circling the ruins. “Steve!” she yelled. “Where are you?!”

“Run!” came his voice, and something else, drowned out by a roar. 

“Get out of there!” Wheeler yelled back.

Billy’s horse nearly lost its footing, scrambling on three legs in the scrubby heather as a gravestone crashed down next to them. Buckley’s horse charged by him, back towards the mound, her crossbow raised, Carol readying a flask of magic fire, and Billy stared, frozen, at the black clouds of miasma, and the barely visible monster within, large enough to stand up and destroy the entire hill. As soon as he could draw breath, he whooped, kicking Mairead’s sides, and she charged. 

Wheeler stood tall, shooting arrow after arrow as the stag clambered around rolling stones and ruins, and Buckley filled the thing with iron bolts as Carol threw one of Byers’ bottles, then another. The flames lit a shape towering in the ruins, a head with a flame instead of an eye, and a giant mouth blowing black breath. An arm the size of a ship’s mast tossed aside a gravestone, and in the light of the next bottle, Billy saw Harrington scramble between its hooves, dragging his leg, and then curl under another pile of rubble.

“Run!” he yelled. 

The huge shape swiped at him, then staggered and roared again as Wheeler shot it through the arm, and Carol set it on fire. It grabbed a handful of ruined wall nearly the size of Wheeler’s stag and threw it at her, before swiping the arrows away from its legs. Its upper body and head were protected by the ruins. 

“Harrington, get _ out  _ of there—” Buckley yelled, running along the edge of the ruin, her horse barely dodging the thing’s grasping hands. 

Billy’s horse stamped, ears flicking, and he swung down, patting its flank as he ran to crouch against some fallen statuary. He took a deep breath, eyeing the feathered ends of Wheeler’s arrows and yanking a broken shank of iron from a pile of rubble. He weighed it in his hand, flexing his fingers as they twitched and trembled with the burn of iron, and then sent up an apology to Max. 

That done, he vaulted over the broken wall. Wheeler yelled something, and Buckley, but he ran up a fallen pillar to leap and grab at the highest arrow he could reach, stuck in the shoulder of the beast. He gripped one of the black veins protruding from its skinless, yellowy sinew, and stabbed the iron in with the other hand, and the creature _ screamed.  _ Billy ignored it, trying to ignore the throbbing in his hand, and breathe. He kicked around to push himself up off another arrow, and reached to swing on knotted, seaweed-filled mane. It staggered, and he saw movement below, out of the corner of his eye.

“The hell are you _ doing,”  _ Harrington yelled up, but Billy  _ almost had it,  _ and then he  _ did,  _ using the iron shank to anchor his upper body as he drew his sword and stabbed it into the creature’s firey eye—and then letting himself fall to slide down a broken pillar into a pile of rubble. The impact shook him for a moment, and the Nuckelavee roared so loud everything went silent, just choking, swirling black breath and shuddering ground, and then Harrington found him, grabbing him close. They yanked each other to the side of the ruin, where Carol and Buckley could help drag Harrington across their horse. Wheeler caught up in moments, pulling Billy up behind her as they broke into a run, and the ground shook as stones fell around them. Mairead fell in with them as they fled, scattering gravel and then pounding across the downs, listening to the screams of the creature behind them. 

“Only the Lady can control the Nuckelavee,” Wheeler shouted. “And even she can barely contain it. If it’s broken free, there—there might be others, anything—anything might come through—they can’t—we have to get to a bridge—” She took a deep breath, and Billy tried not to press too closely against her back, clenching his thighs to stay on without a saddle to grab, or a mane he could clench in his fingers.

“The first bridge isn’t far!” Buckley yelled. “Running water! It can’t cross running water!”

Once they had teetered back across the first arched stone bridge, their woolly-footed beasts sure across a crumbling granite span narrower than Billy’s thigh, he swung down to press his face against Mairead’s flank. She whuffed at his shoulder, and lipped at his hair, and he turned to embrace her head and take shaky breaths. As he lifted his head, he caught sight of the gleaming bloodied flank of Buckley’s horse under Harrington’s crushed leg. Billy stumbled closer, only to feel his breath thick in his mouth with the coming of the Nuckelavee. The sky darkened as the ground shook. Carol helped him take Harrington, clutching at Buckley as the sky blackened around them, and their horses reared at the shriek of the Nuckelavee. 

“Onward!” Wheeler yelled, and led the way on her stag, a white beacon in the closing darkness.

It started raining as they scrambled back down the hill, making the stone bridges and shale-edged paths even more treacherous, and it wasn’t until they were back on the ferry, pushing away from the dock, that Harrington let Buckley and Billy help him down from the horse—Carol stood by, reaching out occasionally, and wringing the rain out of her shirt as she glared at Thomas, before crouching next to Buckley to look at Harrington’s leg. They seemed to know what they were about, their motions calm and efficient, but blood pooled under him. Buckley busied herself stuffing cloth under it, damming the flow while glancing around at the water, but Harrington kept staring up at Billy. 

“Why’d you come back,” he asked, and Billy shook his head, laughing, before leaning in for a kiss. Harrington's lips were cold. "Why come back for me?" he asked, grunting as Robin yanked something around his leg.

Billy’s whole body was still trembling. “I did say I liked you,” he whispered back, and Harrington’s grin went wide and silly, so Billy dropped down next to him, kissing his cheeks, then his mouth, and shielding his body from most of the rain. 

“You barely know me,” Harrington whispered back, leaning up for another kiss, and Billy tried not to feel too victorious. 

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” he asked, watching Harrington’s cheeks flush.

“He touched mine.” Harrington’s voice came from the other side of Billy’s horse. “Last night.”

“He could’ve switched it,” Perkins yelled, then bent her head back over the side, and Thomas rubbed her back, watching Billy. 

He forced a smile, and held his hand out for the nail.

She dropped it in his hand, watching his face, and he squeezed it, keeping his shoulders loose, feeling the edges bite into his hand as he smiled. It always helped that it was a slow, cramping ache. It was a long moment before his arm would go numb, and it would fall from his fingers.

Nan Wheeler watched him hold it, and took a deep breath, rubbing her face. “I apologize. I am—we rode—we rode out for my friend Barbra Holland, and we did—return with her, we—thought. But it was not—my friend. Not human. I am jumping at shadows.” She walked over to grab an oar, patting the horses she squeezed between. 

“...Billy,” came Harrington’s voice, in a whisper, and Billy glanced up from his fistful of cold iron. “Come here, I’ll show you how to punt.”

Billy wandered over, nudging Harrington with his shoulder. “My given name?” he whispered back, grinning, then nearly yelped as Harrington’s fingers slid between his and took the nail. He didn’t say anything, and after a while watching him row, Billy took a deep breath. 

“...you were going to teach me to—”

“Why are you lying?” Harrington whispered, his eyes on the river and the slowly surrounding fog. “Why don’t you want to carry it?”

 _It’s a strain of hysteria, passed from my mother,_ Billy considered saying. _She died in a sanatorium, claiming she was Morgan le Fay. Or maybe it was all true, and I_ am _a mongrel. They say you see what the Fair Folk wish. It could be this face is fake, and I look like that monster last night. Or is it that I do know what I truly am, and know it would expose my lies, strip away the pretty illusion and show the grasping monster I—_ “There may have been Fair Folk in my bloodline, somewhere,” he laughed, tilting his head so his eyes sparkled appealingly. “My mother was born here, you know? It’s probably my imagination, but I swear it makes my fingers go all pins and needles, as though I slept on my arm.”

Harrington laughed, nodding, and bit his lips. “Of course. That—that follows.” He glanced over, frowning, and Billy bent forward and leaned in to press their lips together. _Maybe she was telling the truth,_ Billy’s father had told him. _Maybe that’s why I didn’t look closely enough to see what she was. People love you, Billy, after all, until they don’t._

As they neared the bank of fog, it whirled around the edges of the ferry, eddying around the shapes of Buckley and Wheeler rowing. 

“Why are you here, Billy?” asked Max, and he jumped back, nearly overbalancing save for Harrington’s arm around his shoulders. 

“Ignore the voices,” Harrington whispered. “They—they aren’t—”

“Give me the child,” said Will Byers, or rather his voice; and Billy squinted around, then looked down to see the silvery-gray eyes of a submerged horse, its long face floating an inch out of the water. He caught his breath.

“Don’t answer them,” Harrington breathed against the side of his head, and Billy nodded. 

As they paddled closer, the waves began pushing them more off course towards the overarching jagged rock, and Thomas, and even Perkins, grabbed oars. The ferry tipped up, then down to slap the water as horses started to toss their heads, sidling restlessly, and Billy gathered them together, for once _hoping_ he had some magic gift of the blarney. Their bridles were slippery with water from the heavy mist.

He took a slow breath, measuring out the size of the ferry in his head. It was smaller than his room at the inn. He didn’t want to think of the results of six horses, packed between their riders, panicking over deep cold water with rocks jutting up like knives. 

Wheeler’s choice made sense, now, the stolid little beasts taking in the haunting calls and the wave-tossed ferry with barely a flicked ear. He grimaced, imagining the horses he trained even stepping aboard. 

Clearing his throat, he started telling them the first story he thought of, about water. “Weeri and Walawidbit stole the water from the well,” he muttered, glad the horses wouldn’t expect it to make sense, and watching another water-horse breach, close to the cliffs. It had sharp teeth as long as his fingers, and the water from its mane stung his cheeks. “Weeri and Walawidbit stole the water from the well,” he whispered again, stroking the horses’ soft noses. “This was evil, as there were children, and babies, in the camp—but no rain had fallen, and they were selfish, and driven mad with thirst.” The horses sniffed at his arms and trousers, and he scratched their cheeks and ears, distracting himself as well. “It was very hot,” he whispered to one with with a whorl on its forehead. The horse nodded, nudging him with its nose. Billy smiled, scratching the whorl, and kept whispering to them. “When the warriors woke, they said, ‘We will bring the water back. We will capture Weeri and Walawidbit, and return the water’,” he told another solemn face. It flicked an ear. 

“There is water enough,” said Wheeler’s voice, from behind him, and he saw Wheeler herself nearly drop her oar. 

“We have taken one town,” said Buckley’s, the effect somewhat ruined by the real Buckley swearing over it. “We can take another.”

“Give back the child,” said Max. 

As they passed another lantern, on a pole in the rock, Billy wondered who lit them, or if they were some kind of fairy fire. The waterfalls were growing louder, adding to the mist, and the swells under them swirled a bright foamy green. The gray horse to Billy’s left tossed its head, its mane whipping across his ear. 

“The warriors chased Weeri and Walawidbit, throwing spears,” he said under his breath, feeling useless. “They pierced the water-carrier—”

“Why do they want children?” Thomas asked, abruptly. “They've never taken children before. That seems—”

“Ellie said they’d done something,” Wheeler whispered, her voice still echoing oddly around, helped by a dissonant chorus. “They made her do something, she and some other children, before she fled. She didn’t know what, exactly, she—” 

Her voice cut off as a gust of wind brushed away a swath of the fog, and the filtered sunlight danced over the Falls, plunging over a cliff most of the way up the mountain, through worn planes and windows in the rocks. Harrington and the others stopped talking and stared, for it was _red,_ over what looked like a churning sea of blood. The mountain was _bleeding,_ gouting a ribbon that shone crimson in the sun. As they neared it, rowing along the cliffside, the foam splashing around the edges of the ferry began to show a red tinge.

“The devil is _that,”_ Perkins muttered, stepping up to lean against Buckley’s shoulder.

“Iron,” Wheeler choked out. “So much iron, it reddened the Falls.”

“What’d they _do?”_ Harrington started rowing again. “Small wonder they’re furious—”

The ferry clunked against one of the rocks, tipping, and smacked back into the water. The horses started whinnying, and stomping, and Buckley yelled, “Row, bastards!”

“The water gushed from the water carrier as they ran,” Billy told the horses, and himself, patting necks and rubbing noses. “—and sprang up billabongs, and there was _water—”_

“To your left,” said Thomas, and then the real Thomas shouted, “No, right!” and Perkins and Harrington yelled, and pulled, and the rock merely scraped along the side, instead of tipping them all into the pale green foam, and the darkness beneath.

“I am Nan Wheeler, daughter of Karen Wheeler, and we are _almost there,”_ Wheeler yelled, and then started calling _heave_ ho, _heave_ ho. It would have been funny, except for the voices from the water. 

When they got within a few feet of the shore, the horses all bumped against each other moving toward the stone ledge, and Billy barely had time to get his foot in a stirrup and swing onto one. The ferry tilted down, then back, as they surged onto the outcropping, and he scrambled to grab reins, then realized they were content to mill around, now they were on solid ground. Thomas, Perkins, and Buckley lurched off the ferry as Harrington moored it, and then he and Wheeler staggered onward towards Billy and the horses. 

“What possessed us to put horses on a boat,” Billy muttered, realizing he was astride Buckley’s ride and swinging down. She clapped his shoulder on the way by, and then Perkins and Thomas Hagen leaned into him on either side, still reeking of rum. Perkins’ arm was bandaged where he’d nicked her arm the night before with his saber. 

“Thanks for the story,” she said, grinning. “I’m a fair swimmer, but it’s treacherous, here—” 

Thomas leaned in to say, “That what you did with Harrington, last night? Whisper in his ear?”

“Maybe you should have tried it, instead of watching him from the corners, slavering like a hungry dog,” Billy muttered back, and Thomas spun on his heel, raising his fists. Perkins grabbed him, glaring between them. 

“We’re here for a reason,” she hissed. 

Thomas looked like all the threats in his head were hitting a logjam in his mouth, and then came Wheeler’s voice, and Perkins and Thomas walked by, shoving him so he stumbled forward. 

“Thank you for keeping the horses calm,” Antlers said, behind him, and when he turned it was actually her, and not a voice from the mist. 

“Glad I could be of use.” He nodded, and watched her stalk by, and up the worn wet stone stairs. 

“Thank you,” Harrington whispered into his hair, leaning against his back, and Billy felt a peculiar flush up his neck and cheeks as he leaned back into warm enfolding arms. “That—that may have saved our lives.”

Billy’s throat closed, and he cleared it. “Ha-hardly. I talked to them. I told you I was good with horses.”

“Thank you for coming,” Harrington said again, against his jaw and neck, and Billy leaned his head back for a kiss, forgetting their witnesses, and letting his eyes fall closed. Harrington stroked his hair, and Billy reminded himself, again, that a man who would take whatever he offered was unlikely to value it—but Harrington ran fingers through his hair, and cradled his face, and Billy swallowed back the urge to open his mouth and ask Harrington to keep his hands there forever. He pressed in for another kiss, turning to slide his arms around Harrington’s neck and lick into his warm mouth, salty from the wet spray drifting from the base of the Falls where they hit the seawater. Harrington’s cheeks were red and warm, and Billy pressed his thumbs to them, watching Harrington’s cautious smile and brown eyes. 

“Everyone is waiting,” Harrington whispered, grabbing Billy’s hand, and kissing it.

“Of course.” Billy couldn’t help leaning in for another kiss, smiling, so if Harrington pushed him away, it would be a joke. 

He didn’t.

They finally broke apart at a piercing whistle, and Billy stumbled away to frown up the slate steps at Robin Buckley, laughing as she took her fingers out of her mouth. Harrington pushed by to climb on his horse—held by Buckley—and Billy took a deep breath, trying not to wonder what he’d do, when the plan failed, and Steven Harrington _knew._

Buckley waited for him, letting the rest wander on up the slope. “Why reel him in so fast?” she asked.

“...beg pardon?” Billy returned, his stomach clenching.

“He’s hooked,” she said, watching Harrington and Wheeler. “Thoroughly limed. Why not give him a little play in the line? Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight? Why the rush reeling him in?”

Billy blinked back a horrible image of a metal hook in Harrington’s mouth, and slamming his head against the dock before gutting him like a fish. “I wouldn’t…” he started, and she raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure how stupid Wheeler is,” he tried, and she snorted, “—she may…” he trailed off, watching Wheeler walk point-to-point across jagged boulders, and Harrington’s avid attention. “—I don’t—as soon as she snaps for his attention, he’s hers.”

“Hrm.” Without replying, she urged her horse onward.

He kept noticing glances, on the rocky path up the mountain—from Harrington, biting his lip, but returning his smiles; from Buckley, her gaze on one then the other of them—and from Thomas Hagen, who narrowed his eyes, seeing Harrington’s eyes on Billy, and bared his teeth at Billy looking back. Wheeler was running up without a steed at all, and Billy opened his mouth to ask, when he saw her stop, and turn, and hold her hand out towards the trees. A white stag with red eyes stepped out between them, and she swung aboard, saddle-less. The conversation between Buckley and Harrington didn’t falter.

The path was steep, and worn deeply into the stone of the mountain, so the sides were an arm’s-length over Billy’s head, and his knees brushed the stones, sometimes on both sides. Sometimes only on one, and his other leg dangled in thin air over the crashing waters below. In places, the sides had given way in a rush of shale, or shone with slick moss where they crossed and re-crossed streams, but Wheeler’s horses were sure-footed and cheerful, and crossed stone bridges narrower than their own ribs with barely a flick of the tail. Billy was glad he’d swallowed back his urge to compare their hooves to snowshoes, or ask whether they had sheepdogs in their lineage. His own—he asked, and was introduced to her as Mairead—was dappled gray and cream, and when Harrington saw him trying to befriend her with flowers plucked from overhanging plants, he hung back to stage-whisper, “She’s named ‘Daisy’. It means ‘Daisy’.”

Billy eyed his handful of daisies, and offered them again. “Come on, girl, you know you’re secretly a cannibal,” he told her, and Harrington burst out laughing. She lipped politely at his fingers, flicking her tail, and he grabbed more. “I hope these aren’t her family,” he said, idly, to watch Harrington’s shoulders shake.

When the path widened out, he took the best bloom, rode up, and tucked it in the buttonhole of Harrington’s jacket. Harrington laughed, leaning down from the saddle in a long flexible stretch that made Billy feel _thirst,_ grabbed a sprig of low-growing heather, and pulled his horse close to tuck it behind Billy’s ear. He leaned in for a clumsy horseback-kiss that was all jarring teeth. 

Billy nearly grabbed at him when he pulled away. “Had enough?”

Harrington laughed, and licked his lips. “I—think I can wait until we’re on solid ground.”

Billy licked his own teeth, slowly, grinning, and Harrington ducked his head, clicking his tongue to urge his horse forward and away. His neck was red.

“Coward move, Harrington!” Billy yelled, and got back a thumb rudely flicked off Harrington’s teeth. 

By the time Billy’s stomach began to growl for a second meal, the path was turning from a clamber between boulders to a fairy bower. Massive branches draped with moss overhung the path, overladen with ferns and tiny flowers like the ones in Harrington’s crown the night before, and Wheeler yanked some down, weaving flower crowns as she talked. She tossed the first finished one over Buckley’s head. Buckley started throwing scones at everyone—they thudded into Billy’s hand, heavy like a rock—and she smirked, watching Billy’s expression, but when he bit in, they were sweet and chewy. He saluted her. Soon they all had flower crowns, and Harrington dropped back at the next wide bit of trail to brag about Wheeler again. 

Billy listened grudgingly, touching his own, and Harrington leaned to straighten it, biting his lip. 

“Keep it on,” he whispered, grabbing Billy’s hand, and squeezing it, ignoring the sticky crumbs of scone. “They have a magic to them. It’ll keep you safe.”

“...keep yours too, then,” Billy told him, kissing his hand before the trail narrowed again, and they were forced to single-file. “I’ll try not to die of jealousy.”

Harrington’s shoulders shook with laughter ahead of him. “Already? Are you always so jealous?”

“Never!” Billy called up. “It’s horrific, Harrington, I don’t know what to do! This will end terribly. I’ll wander the streets of your town, begging for stories of you as a child while you marry your lady fair.”

Harrington turned in the saddle to grin at him, pink-cheeked. “As soon as you hear them, your lovesickness will be cured.”

“That’s true enough,” Buckley called back, and Harrington hunched his shoulders, facing front, as Billy realized the man had actually forgotten the entire mountain could hear them.

When they finally reached something of a crest in the mountain, more jagged edges towered above, but a shining grassy expanse spread about them like a lushly carpeted landing in a staircase through the clouds. 

The trees grew smaller, and scrubbier, blown crooked in the wind, giving way to gleaming grass and flowering heather. Mairead snatched a few glossy mouthfuls, and Billy patted her neck, looking out to sea on two sides, and below them clouds and the flyspeck of an eagle, soaring above the town of Hawkins. The noise of the waterfall rose again as they crossed the rolling downs. 

As they drew closer, they could smell smoke, and taste iron down the backs of their throats. Wheeler yelled “Ha!”, and the stag began to run, stopping as they crested the next rise. Billy rode up alongside the others to see a towering, smoking shell of stonework on top of a blackened hole in the hill. Stained glass still hung in the arched windows in what remained of the walls at the top. The smoke was thick enough, still, to coat their insides as they breathed. There were overturned and shattered gravestones scattered around the cavernous black gape in the side of the hill. Arrayed in the shining green grass before it were cannons, tipped and strewn, their bases charred. 

Mairead sidled uneasily, flicking her tail, and he stroked her flank, whispering nonsense. 

Wheeler was breathing in pants, hands over her mouth, her whole body shaking. Perkins and Thomas urged their horses closer to the breach, and Buckley charged after. Harrington approached Wheeler, and Billy gritted his teeth, and shouted a loud “Gee-yup” to startle Mairead down the hill and leave the two of them to their discussion. 

“How did they get those _up_ here?” Buckley was saying, as he approached. She was crouching by one of the overturned cannons, holding what looked like a blackened human pelvis.

“Ellie said she stopped them,” Wheeler said, thickly, riding up with Harrington in tow. “She—she said she didn’t know what they wanted. They threatened the other children. They threatened her mother.”

“And we wondered what was causing the uproar,” Carol snorted, standing in her stirrups to peer into the featureless darkness of the open mound. She clicked her tongue, and trotted towards it.

“We—we’re going in?” Billy said, apparently aloud, because Thomas snorted, and Harrington nudged his horse close enough to reach out and squeeze Billy's shoulder. 

“You don’t need to—”

“No,” Billy laughed, clenching his hand on the reins. “You’ll—you’ll be glad you brought me. I’ll be of use.”

“Wait,” Wheeler said, and steepled her fingers over her face, drawing a slow breath. “No. Don’t—the—the way is broken. This breach—this is not a safe way between my home and the homes of humankind. You could—you could be lost.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Hear that, Hargrove? You can head back, now, you’re useless.” 

“Help,” whispered a woman’s voice, from the breach, and Wheeler spun her stag. 

“Barbara?”

“Help,” came the voice, from the trees, then the ruins above the mound, then all around them. 

“Barb!” Wheeler called, and Buckley grabbed her hand before she could ride off.

“We’ll check everywhere out here,” she said, and Wheeler nodded, wiping her nose and setting her shoulders before urging her stag toward the breach. 

Harrington watched her go, biting his lips, and Billy clenched his hands on his saddlebow. 

“How can I help?” His voice emerged husky, and Harrington visibly called his mind back from Wheeler’s dangerous journey, and blinked.

“Ah,” he muttered, frowning around. “—I think—that—”

“Robin,” Perkins called. “Steve. There are journals.” She waved a leatherbound book, kicking away a crumbling charcoaled ribcage. Thomas was kicking a skull around. 

Billy swung down from the saddle and went to help Perkins—she absolved him of the name, running her elbow into his gut and issuing a direct order to call her Carol—and they searched through the wreckage, finding a captain’s logbook of sorts, and an unburned crate of biscuits. Their horses wandered, bumping noses, jumping and prancing around each other until Mairead was distracted by heather, and planted her hooves to yank mouthfuls.

Billy sat on a crate, half his attention on the smoking ruin of the hill and the exposed dark gulf within. He licked his thumb, and flipped through the logbook. “‘We hauled the cannons up with pulleys, and believe ourselves thus far undetected’,” he read aloud, accepting a biscuit. “‘Without favor shown by the notables of Hawkins, I nearly despaired of my goal, but the wheel of discovery rolls ever onwards, and their ancient magicks will soon be put to the test of gunpowder, iron, and human ingenuity.’”

“What a cock,” Carol put in, stuffing a biscuit in her face. “I’ve found his accounts. He notes down all the bribes he attempted. He never asked _me.”_

Billy snorted, choking on his biscuit, and continued. “‘The girl is becoming troublesome. She asks unending questions about the curse on her mother—I have nearly been caught out, more than once!—and it has forced my hand, more than I would like. She now believes wholly that her mother will die if she refuses me in any small favor—’” Billy raised his eyes to meet Carol’s, and she brought the heel of her boot down on the crumbling ribcage until all that remained were bone shards and char. 

“Prattling _cock,”_ she repeated, frowning around, then stomping what looked like a human femur. 

“This is—the girl Harrington rescued?”

“I suppose,” she said, peering between the wreckage of the crates. “She would only answer to Will's calls, but when she saw him on Steve’s horse, she let Robin pull her up. Barb helped them hide. When they blasted the hill open, everything in Faery would have been angered.” She grinned over at him. “They had a long few days of it.” 

Thomas was following Harrington around. It looked like he was talking intently, but Billy shook his head, and set his jaw, reading on. “‘It is my belief that the girl can open a breach, into which we can fire the cannons, preventing them from barring our passage. After that, she is likely to become troublesome, despite concern for her friends.’” Billy grimaced. “Who is the girl? How is her mother?”

“Shite-a-bed _sneaksbie,”_ Carol hissed. “He would have _harmed_ her, after all that. Hopper is seeing to her, and her mother.” 

Billy nodded, watching Thomas grab Harrington’s reins and pull him to a stop. 

She followed his gaze. “...fast worker, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“Help me,” said the woman’s voice, _just_ behind him, and he yelled, swinging around to see Carol holding her sword on what was _mostly_ a woman, her naked skin lifted with the roots of the grass and heather where she stood. Rusty water poured freely from her mouth.

Carol’s voice shook, but her sword was steady. “I—if you are Barbara Holland, we—” 

“Help,” the woman said, her voice bubbling, and her head slowly bending backwards as water gouted from under her eyelids, and out her nose. Her body collapsed, arcing backwards into the grass, and Carol stumbled backwards, shoving Billy behind her. Another gurgling “Help,” came from behind them, and he yanked his own sword free with a clumsy scrape. She grabbed his elbow and hauled him towards the ruins, just as Thomas, Harrington, and Buckley galloped back towards them. 

“She’s not here,” Buckley shouted. “They’re just scaring us.”

“They aren’t _doing_ anything.” Thomas rolled his eyes, steering his horse so it nearly crashed into Billy and Carol, and reared to avoid them, shaking its head with an earsplitting whinny. 

Carol’s lips thinned, and she dropped Billy’s arm, stalking toward the ruin. She picked up a chunk of the broken femur, and hucked it after Thomas, and he dodged, laughing. 

“Barbra was visiting a grave,” Buckley said, glaring after Thomas, who was trying not to fall off his horse. “There might be some trace up there, at least.”

“Help,” came the voice, from between them, and Billy shuddered, wondering whether if they _did_ find Barb, he’d be able to hear her voice without the skin spasming clear up his spine. 

Their horses seemed fairly unafraid, milling around and munching the heather, but the humans drew sighs of relief as their feet touched stone, and the last of the creeping voices stayed back in the vegetation. Thomas leaned against a broken pillar, glowering at Billy. Carol found a pair of spectacles that obviously meant something to her, and Buckley squeezed her shoulder before doling out the remaining scones as they sat among the graveside statues, and then sat with Carol, looking out through the broken masonry to the sea. 

Billy sat next to Harrington. For a long moment, he watched the scone crumble under Harrington’s nervous, fidgeting fingers. Then he leaned to bump shoulders. 

“Are you making bird food?”

“What?” Harrington squinted at him, then frowned down at his handkerchief of crumbs. “...oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Billy replied, watching him. Harrington was silent, and Billy eyed the sun reflecting off the waves and clouds in the wide horizon, then crooked his leg up next to him on the sarcophagus he’d chosen for a seat, and turned to face Harrington. “Lady Wheeler knows what she’s doing,” he tried.

Harrington smiled, ducking his head. “She usually does.” The low, orangey light gilded his smile, and Billy stared, licking his lips, only to make an embarrassing creaky gasp back in his throat when Harrington leaned in to press their lips together. He yanked Billy close with an arm around his back, laughing against his mouth, his breath sending heat down to Billy’s dick.

He threw an arm around Harrington’s neck, scooting half into his lap and snickering at the avalanche of crumbs, kissing the soft shadows on Harrington’s face, before staring into the dusky orange gleam of his eyes. “Harrington—Harrington, it's barely noon, what’s happening to the light—”

The floor tilted, collapsing sideways towards the gaping hole in the hill, and their horses screamed. Billy went deaf, and blind, choking on dust, his body shuddering with the impact of the stones flying around him. He landed in prickly heather, scrambling up to a crawl. 

As his hearing returned, Wheeler’s voice screamed, _“Nuckelavee!_ It’s the Nuckelavee, back—” and she rode out, holding herself upright on the stag with her legs. The broken wall of the graveyard crashed towards them, stones the size of coffins shaking the ground. The air went foul—Billy spat grit, coughing, and his eyes watered as he stumbled after his horse. 

Mairead slowed for him—rearing in the shadowy dust cloud—and he calmed her enough to get his leg over, yanking the reins in a tight circle until she put all four hooves on the ground, turning gladly towards the path from the ferry. He saw Carol, running flat-out behind Thomas, reach for Thomas' hand as he swung astride their horse, but he spurred his beast onward. She nearly fell, screaming after him, when Buckley rode up next to her, holding an arm out to help her swing up to safety. 

Billy stood in his stirrups, looking around for Harrington. 

Wheeler’s stag shone white in the black gouts of breath the creature was spewing, circling the ruins. “Steve!” she yelled. “Where are you?!”

“Run!” came his voice, and something else, drowned out by a roar. 

“Get out of there!” Wheeler yelled back.

Billy’s horse nearly lost its footing, scrambling on three legs in the scrubby heather as a gravestone crashed down next to them. Buckley’s horse charged by him, back towards the mound, her crossbow raised, Carol readying a flask of magic fire, and Billy stared, then followed. Wheeler was standing in her stirrups again, shooting arrow after arrow as the stag clambered around rolling stones and ruins, and Buckley filled the thing with iron bolts as Carol threw one of Byers’ bottles, then another. The flames lit a shape towering in the ruins, a head with a flame instead of an eye, and a giant mouth blowing black breath. An arm the size of a ship’s mast tossed aside a gravestone, and in the light of the next bottle, Billy saw Harrington scramble between its hooves, dragging his leg, and then curl under another pile of rubble.

“Run!” he yelled. 

The huge shape swiped at him, then staggered and roared again as Wheeler shot it through the arm, and Carol set it on fire. It grabbed a handful of ruined wall nearly the size of Wheeler’s stag and threw it at her, before swiping the arrows away from its legs. Its upper body and head were protected by the ruins. 

“Harrington, get _out_ of there—” Buckley yelled, running along the edge of the ruin, her horse barely dodging the thing’s grasping hands. 

Billy’s horse stamped, ears flicking, and he swung down, patting its flank as he ran to crouch against some fallen statuary. He took a deep breath, eyeing the feathered ends of Wheeler’s arrows and yanking a broken shank of iron from a pile of rubble. He weighed it in his hand, flexing his fingers as they twitched and trembled with the burn of iron, and then sent up an apology to Max. 

That done, he vaulted over the broken wall. Wheeler yelled something, and Buckley, but he ran up a fallen pillar to leap and grab at the highest arrow he could reach, stuck in the shoulder of the beast. He gripped one of the black veins protruding from its skinless, yellowy sinew, and stabbed the iron in with the other hand, and the creature _screamed._ Billy ignored it, trying to ignore the throbbing in his hand, and breathe. He kicked around to push himself up off another arrow, and reached to swing on knotted, seaweed-filled mane. It staggered, and he saw movement below, out of the corner of his eye.

“The hell are you _doing,”_ Harrington yelled up, but Billy _almost had it,_ and then he _did,_ using the iron shank to anchor his upper body as he drew his sword and stabbed it into the creature’s firey eye—and then letting himself fall to slide down a broken pillar into a pile of rubble. The impact shook him for a moment, and the Nuckelavee roared so loud everything went silent, just choking, swirling black breath and shuddering ground, and then Harrington found him, grabbing him close. They yanked each other to the side of the ruin, where Carol and Buckley could help drag Harrington across their horse. Wheeler caught up in moments, pulling Billy up behind her as they broke into a run, and the ground shook as stones fell around them. Mairead fell in with them as they fled, scattering gravel and then pounding across the downs, listening to the screams of the creature behind them. 

“Only the Lady can control the Nuckelavee,” Wheeler shouted. “If it’s broken free, there—there might be others, anything—anything might come through—they can’t—we have to get to a bridge—” She took a deep breath, and Billy tried not to press too closely against her back, clenching his thighs to stay on without a saddle to grab, or a mane he could clench in his fingers.

“The first bridge isn’t far!” Buckley yelled. “Running water! It can’t cross running water!”

Once they had teetered back across the first arched stone bridge, their woolly-footed beasts sure across a crumbling granite span narrower than Billy’s thigh, he swung down to press his face against Mairead’s flank. She whuffed at his shoulder, and lipped at his hair, and he turned to embrace her head and take shaky breaths. As he lifted his head, he caught sight of the gleaming bloodied flank of Buckley’s horse under Harrington’s crushed leg. Billy stumbled closer, only to feel his breath thick in his mouth with the coming of the Nuckelavee. The sky darkened as the ground shook. Carol helped him take Harrington, clutching at Buckley as the sky blackened around them, and their horses reared at the shriek of the Nuckelavee. 

“Onward!” Wheeler yelled, and led the way on her stag, a white beacon in the closing darkness.

It started raining as they scrambled back down the hill, making the stone bridges and shale-edged paths even more treacherous, and it wasn’t until they were back on the ferry, pushing away from the dock, that Harrington let Buckley and Billy help him down from the horse—Carol stood by, reaching out occasionally, and wringing the rain out of her shirt, and glared at Thomas, before crouching next to Buckley to look at Harrington’s leg. Blood pooled under him, and Buckley busied herself stuffing cloth under it, glancing around at the water, but Harrington kept staring up at Billy. 

“Why’d you come back,” he asked, and Billy shook his head, laughing, before leaning in for a kiss. Harrington's lips were cold. "Why come back for me?" he asked.

Billy’s whole body was still trembling. “I did say I liked you,” he whispered back, and Harrington’s grin went wide and silly, so Billy dropped down next to him, kissing his cheeks, then his mouth, and shielding his body from most of the rain. 

“You barely know me,” Harrington whispered back, leaning up for another kiss, and Billy tried not to feel too victorious. 

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” he asked, watching Harrington’s cheeks flush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD** (I reply to each one, so if you don't want the attention, say *whisper* or "No reply, please!" I will go be extra-nice to my friends or turn my delighted feelings into more WRITING! =D)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003) Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/)


	4. Stories of the past: Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's lost a lot of blood, but Billy tries to keep him in good spirits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the chapter which had to be dedicated to Ihni! XD I hope you enjoy!

Once they had Harrington’s bleeding mostly stopped, Buckley glanced at Billy, holding up the bag she’d pulled the bandages from—he waved her away—and turned to Carol, who yelped at Buckley’s single-minded yank at her torn shirt. 

Carol flushed as Buckley wiped at her shoulder, and cleaned gravel out of her arm, and checked under her hair where blood smeared her neck. When Buckley was done, she seemed to abruptly realize she’d torn Carol’s shirt half asunder, and muttered red-faced as she yanked at her jacket and threw it around Carol’s shoulders. Carol tilted to lean against her, and Buckley shoved her off, flailing a hand at her, but Carol just laughed and dropped her head against Buckley’s shoulder. 

Harrington had gone quiet, his head on Billy’s thigh, and Billy ran his fingers through the man’s wet locks as he watched Buckley and Carol mutter to each other, and snicker. Billy raised his eyebrows, glancing over at Thomas, who was glaring back at him.

As they neared the dock, motion came visible through the fog. Little Will Byers was there, held firmly by his mother, both of their nightshirts soaked through in the pattering rain. “Take me back,” he yelled hoarsely. “She is _ searching—” _

Nan Wheeler bounded from the ferry to the dock, kicking off so hard the ferry rocked and splashed against the water, and put her arms around them. “Unload,” she called. “I’ll help her with Will.”

“She wants her _ child!”  _ Will shrieked, and Ms. Byers shouted, “No, Will, you’re  _ mine—” _

“Quickly, now.” Buckley steadied them with her oar against the dock. “Hargrove—can you take Harrington home?”

“Gladly.” Billy looked up at her steady feet and set jaw. “I—should I—”

“We’ll send a healer.”

“I can take him.” Thomas stomped close, and Steve’s horse flicked her ears, huffing. 

“Go for the healer, or go to Hopper, he needs to hear the dire tidings,” Buckley shot Thomas down in mid-bluster, and Billy lowered his head to hide a grin. 

Harrington squeezed his hand. 

Thomas grabbed Carol’s arm, shouted _ something  _ about the healer, and stomped to the edge to leap the gap.

Once they tied off the ferry, Billy scooped Harrington up entire, though he protested he could walk. He couldn’t, as Billy and Buckley learned while trying to tip him upright so Billy might swing up onto Mairead. The horse kept trying to turn and inspect Harrington’s crushed leg (an impulse Billy had to respect), but they finally managed, with Billy hauling and Buckley boosting Harrington from below, to get the man settled sideways against Billy’s shoulder. Buckley tied Harrington’s reins to Mairead’s saddle, and Harrington took a few strained panting breaths against Billy’s neck. 

“Which way,” Billy asked against his hair, switching the reins to his left hand so as to hold Harrington secure. 

“D’n—down the—just keep going,” Harrington grunted. “Big house.”

They rode along the river. It seemed to Billy that it had been lower, before, not this roiling mass of white water and silvery crabs, gushing across the paving stones, and he kept an uneasy eye on it. “That...the Nuckelavee,” he said, stumbling over the odd syllables. “It can’t follow? It can’t get to the town?”

“...it can’t,” Harrington mumbled into his shoulder, then sighed, rolling his head to talk into the air instead of Billy’s shirt. “It can’t, but other things can.”

“The water-horses?” Billy asked.

“...and other things. I don’t—” Harrington paused to swallow, his voice shaken. “—one of, ah, one of my friends sought a favor only—only a fortnight ago. It was a—an easy thing, for Fair folk, and they granted it for only the price of rare flowers. Why—why would they—”

“What was the favor?” Billy asked, and Harrington paused.

“Ah. Well, it—it—you know how—sometimes—” he said, then hrrrm’d.

“...yes?”

“Sometimes—sometimes a, ah, a person—a person is born who is a boy or a girl—”

“Often,” Billy couldn’t help interjecting, fascinated.

“Stuff it,” Harrington muttered. “They’re—it’s a mistake, you know? They look like one, when it should be something entirely—”

“And the...Fair folk...changed how they looked?” Billy asked, pulling Harrington closer as the rain soaked their clothes. 

“It was—it was kind,” Harrington sighed. “We’ve always—we've always trusted that they—would be kind, here. There's no knowing what to prepare for, now.”

Billy wondered about the safety of the inn, and reminded himself they were on an upper storey, and unlikely to be washed away. _ It’s a stone house, Billy,  _ Max’s voice teased him in his head. _ The Big Bad Wolf can’t blow it down. _

“This wasn’t much of a favor, was it,” Harrington said suddenly, his laugh warm against Billy’s neck. “Coming along. Meeting the Nuckelavee.”

“You never introduced me, even,” Billy told him, ready for a distraction, as the blood from Harrington’s pant leg soaked into his. Harrington had more color in his cheeks, after Buckley had wrapped his leg, whispering rhymes, and Billy wondered whether it was magic, or superstition. He wiped the rain from his face. “Are you embarrassed to know me, Harrington? Or questioning whether you should count someone who throws tombstones among your acquaintance?”

“I _ am  _ questioning that, now you mention it,” Harrington laughed tiredly. “Unbelievable rudeness, when we rode so far to come calling.”

“What...was it?” Billy asked cautiously. “I didn’t...”

Harrington was quiet for a long moment, and Billy opened his mouth to change the subject just when he finally started to speak. “You ask so few questions,” he mumbled, “—I forget you don’t...belong here. The Nuckelavee is...an enemy, to humans. We don’t know why, some say the mining awoke it—and while the other Fair folk welcomed us—some of them, anyway—it attacked. The Lady fights it, for our sakes. But even she cannot win, not truly. She beats it back into hiding. And now it is free.”

“It will...come for the town?” Billy asked, wondering whether he ought to throw Max and Harrington into a carriage for London, and apologize later.

“Maybe the Lady will fight it for us,” Harrington sighed. “Except humans attacked her home with iron and fire. Maybe she _ released  _ it. The only way down from the mountain is the ferry, though. Across the water.”

Billy took a long breath, glad he wouldn’t have to haul Max to a carriage, clawing and snarling like a badger, and tie her to the luggage rack. “What about...the Lady?”

“She took _ children,”  _ Harrington said, sounding bewildered. “She—she stole _ children.  _ Ellie from the—that camp, but little Will Byers, too, and Callie—”

“Younger than Max?” Billy pressed. “She wouldn’t—”

“She’d hardly go out alone, your sister,” Harrington laughed. “In this rain?”

Billy thought she might, if only to show the weather who made decisions for Maxine Mayfield. “...Wheeler doesn’t know what happened?” Billy asked, and Harrington took his head. 

“She said the Door has been closed. The Lady—”

“She’s not home to callers?” Billy asked, smiling, but his stomach was sinking as he wondered why he’d thought an errand for his father would be safe for Max.

“She’s not like a human,” Harrington said, and Billy flinched. “She vanishes for years, or she rides the Hunt through the town, and everyone is afraid to sleep for fear of the dreams. I—we don’t know what she’ll do.”

Billy bit back _ how could you not tell me,  _ and _ why did I not ask,  _ and hoped Max was continuing her journal of their travels, and waiting for his return in front of the fire. “...not much of a favor, indeed,” he sighed.

Harrington took a deep breath, held it, and then only sighed.

“...are you saying you’ll give me leave to choose again?” Billy asked, and Harrington hummed, as though considering. “Maybe a kiss,” Billy whispered.

“Perhaps,” Harrington whispered, smiling, and Billy didn’t push.

Mairead wasn’t the smoothest ride, but she paced along steadily even after a day of climbing mountains and running from monsters. He told her she was very brave, and her dapple gray coat was lovely, and when they arrived he _ would not rest  _ until he had depopulated the county of dandelions and daisies for her voracious and sinister appetite, and Harrington laughed against his shoulder. 

When the road split into two, divided by a thin belt of green, Billy veered to the side and rode along under the dogwood trees. They were blooming like burst feather pillows. Mairead puttered along until they came to a stone house, tall, with wide windows, and a statue of a deer drinking from the fountain, and Billy held Harrington tighter, in case he tried to get down on his own. 

“...that’s just the gatehouse,” Harrington muttered, as Billy nearly tugged Mairead to a stop, then turned to continue along the way.

“Do you live in a _ castle—”  _ Billy hissed, as they passed through gates taller than the trees, and iron fences barely visible in the massive hedges.

Harrington cleared his throat, shifting. “...didn’t you ask about me? Tommy said—”

“Max asked around.” Billy nodded, leaning his head to try and see around the bends in the road, and swallowed back a wash of guilt. “She told me you risked your life to save two children, not of your own family, and I could see you teasing the girl into a smile.”

“Nobody said, ‘he owns Harrington House, he has tens of thousands of pounds a year,’” Harrington mumbled against his shoulder, and Billy bit his lips together, considering his story. 

“You were wearing fine silks to hunt monsters,” he said aloud. “Either the mark of a spendthrift, an idiot, or a man with no worry about affording shirts; and at the ball they spoke of you with smiling respect. You rode a mop of woolens like the rest of us—”

“Mairead, he’s insulting you,” Harrington whispered. She flicked an ear.

“—but your tack was fine indeed, new, and some of it gilt—” 

“—it was very fine, I thought,” Harrington sighed.

“And,” Billy said, and kissed Harrington’s hair, tightening his embrace as they rounded another turn up the long hill, and squinting through the orchard wondering whether there was a house at all, “—you have a rather gaudy new _ watch,  _ not monogrammed, with an antlered hart on it; I can only imagine because of Wheeler—”

Harrington’s face felt hot against his neck. “Mercy.”

“—and from her face, I think it was not a gift _ from  _ her. _ To  _ her, perhaps—perhaps you intended to present her with it at—”

“Mercy, man!” Harrington grunted with pain as he pushed away enough to lift his head and kiss Billy, who made a noise less dignified than he’d have liked. “Is this the only way to shut you up? Why were you studying me?”

Billy licked his lips, considering whether to say something more to bring the color up in Harrington’s cheeks, in hopes of another kiss. “You are a fine dancer,” he whispered, trying for a kiss, which Harrington allowed, then gathering the man back against his shoulder. “I could not look away, well before I knew your name,” which was true enough, “—but I mislike your sweaty pallor; let us get you in a bed, and I’ll fetch a doctor, if one hasn’t come.” He squinted again through the blooming apple trees. “Is that it?”

“That’s the cat’s house,” Harrington mumbled against his neck, then slowly heated again, until his skin felt like it would leave a brand on Billy’s neck.

“...the...cat’s house?” he asked, already smiling.

Harrington groaned. “When I was a child—”

“So, last week.”

“Brute. I'm wounded, be kind—when I was _ very, very small,  _ I desired that the cat might stay with me, in my rooms, so as to have some company in the night.”

Billy bit his lips, brows drawing together as he imagined a small and lonely Harrington, inviting the cat. “They wouldn’t allow it?!”

“The cat did not _ wish  _ to stay; she had an appointment with the groundskeeper’s fireplace, and beef stew. So I was told she had her own home to go to, and I—I, quite frequently, would visit the ‘cat’s house’.”

“During polite hours,” Billy said, and then his throat closed inexplicably; he cleared it, tucking Harrington’s head under his chin. “Leaving your calling card.”

“I did not leave a _ card,”  _ Harrington snorted, shifting to slump more easily against Billy’s chest, and sliding a cold hand inside his jacket. 

“Do you have a cat now?”

“Oh,” and Harrington’s hand slid up and down Billy’s ribs, “—no, I—I never thought to ask for one.”

“They never thought to give you a kitten? Is—” Billy narrowed his eyes through the trees as they came over a little rise, and finally the House loomed before them. “...it’s a castle. You live in a castle.”

“It’s not!” Harrington huffed. “There’s an old keep, in the center, but it’s just a wretchedly massive house.”

“How do you live there?” Billy asked, keeping his voice teasing, but sliding out of his jacket to wrap Harrington’s shivering shoulders. “Start a brisk walking circuit through with your morning tea, round the second floor after lunch? Can’t let the—” He waved a hand. “—east wing get jealous of the kitchen—”

Harrington snorted, sliding his arms around Billy’s waist. “It was my parents’. After my father died at sea, my mother, uh, she left for London. It’s locked.” His voice was muffled against Billy’s neck. “My rooms are next to the library. My father wanted to…”

“Hrm?” Billy prompted, and Steve shook his head, sighing. The enormous doors made Billy feel they were visitors from Lilliput. “I feel like Tom Thumb,” he said into Harrington’s hair. “Will someone meet us?”

“I have keys in my saddlebag,” Harrington mumbled, and Billy steadied him against the saddle. 

“Will you fall?”

“No,” Harrington said, swaying, and Billy raised his eyebrows, and frowned around. Harrington’s arms trembled as he tried to steady himself against the saddle, and Mairead’s withers. “I’m fine.” Harrington pushed an inch or so back from Billy, his jaw set, and Billy forgot about the keys, and kissed him.

“—ah.” He remembered his goal, as Harrington shivered, but leaned to press another couple of kisses to Harrington’s jaw.

“The doctor’s going to arrive and find us standing here in the drive,” Harrington whispered, grinning, and Billy kissed him _ again. _

“I’ll get down,” he murmured against Harrington’s smile, “—and catch you. We can send someone out for the horses?”

“We can ring the bell,” Harrington grunted, knuckles whitening as Billy swung down and he clung to the saddle. Billy watched him, then turned to grab their bags, filled with a wriggling sickness as he felt in Harrington’s for the heavy iron keyring. By the time he had the bags slung over his shoulder, Harrington was shaking, leaning forward to prop himself against his horse’s neck. Billy nearly dropped it all again running to grip Harrington around the thighs, steadying him as he tipped forward and slid down, then manhandling him until his face was against Billy’s shoulder again, Billy’s other arm under his thighs.

“My hero,” Harrington snorted, slumping against him, and Billy laughed, kissing his hair, gently enough for him not to notice.

The journey to Harrington’s room was long, for which he apologized, at first, before he started asking _ questions.  _

“Why are you doing this,” he mumbled, and Billy stopped, panting, at the top of the stairs, and tromped over to a loveseat that appeared to be mostly gilt. It creaked as he dropped into it, freezing at Harrington’s swallowed moan.

“Any one of your friends today would carry you up these three stories,” Billy told him, sidestepping the question, and Harrington laughed. “They’d have to sit down on your embroidered cushions, here—”

Harrington snorted, his cold hands shaking around Billy’s neck. Billy kept whispering into his hair. 

“—and they’d _ curse _ you for weighing as much as your _ horse,  _ but they’d carry you up  _ another  _ three stories, and  _ another—” _

“My house isn’t _ that  _ huge,” Harrington said, smiling, and Billy leaned to kiss his forehead. 

“And up the beanstalk, and into the castle of the giant—” he announced, getting into the spirit of the thing, “—and fight him for you—”

“Fight my own giants,” Harrington whispered.

“Are you saying you can walk?” Billy asked, running his fingers through Harrington’s hair, and wishing he hadn’t, quite fairly, sent the single responding servant to mind the horses, instead of running to see what the _ devil  _ was delaying the doctor.

“Why did you come back for me,” Harrington asked, for about the seventieth time, and Billy groaned, swallowing back an honest answer that it didn’t particularly _ matter,  _ what happened to Billy Hargrove.

“Because I’m Prince Charming,” he answered, hoping the guilt didn’t show in his face. It must not have, because Harrington leaned his head back for a kiss.

“You could have died,” he whispered.

“So could you,” Billy sighed. 

The next landing had a painting whose gilt frame started at the carpet and reached the ceiling, and Billy settled them on the loveseat facing it, his legs trembling. “That...you?” he asked, and Harrington groaned, his face hot against Billy’s neck. 

Billy studied the painting, his lungs aching after hauling Harrington’s dead weight up three flights of stairs. A somewhat younger Harrington—maybe four or five years ago—looked miserable in it. The man standing over him and the woman seated next to him were looking at the viewer, while Harrington was staring off into the distance, his shoulders hunched, wearing a piece of clothing that could only very charitably be called a dress. “Who dressed you in _ that,”  _ Billy panted, feeling Harrington’s fingers dig into his arm. “I only mean, it’s—it’s impressive. Is what it is. You could—you could wear anything. Make it look good, and yet. Yet that thing exists. It’s like an that—you know. The unstoppable force, immovable object. Paradox.”

Harrington snickered, and pressed warm lips against Billy’s neck. “...my mother...picked it. She—would like a different child.”

Billy leaned to whisper in his hair, “—does that mean I may have this one?”

Harrington laughed, but Billy could feel his heart pounding.

While they waited for the doctor, Billy got Harrington settled in his room, somewhat bandaged him up, and stuck some pillows under his leg.

“...I’ll be fine,” Harrington said, watching him. “Robin used a magic poultice—ffmmmgh,” he muttered, as Billy pulled the blankets over his face.

Billy dunked the shaving towel in the basin, and wrung it out, returning to wipe at Harrington’s face. “Is that blood yours?” he asked, biting his lip as he dabbed above Harrington’s eye.

“Maybe,” Harrington returned, smiling, then wincing, so Billy leaned in to kiss him again.

“Does it hurt here?” he whispered, brushing his lips over the bloody side of Harrington’s mouth. He could feel the man grin, and then flinch. “Stop smiling,” Billy told him, watching Harrington fight a laugh. “...that’s not a good way to test for injuries.” 

“Stop making me smile, then,” Harrington mumbled against his face, and Billy brushed a soft kiss on the spot between Harrington’s eyebrow and hairline, where he’d wiped it clean. 

He dabbed down Harrington’s whole face, following with kisses. He could feel Harrington’s face heat. “Are you clean yet?” he whispered.

“Not _ remotely,”  _ Harrington laughed. The scrape along the side of his face flexed, and bled again, and Billy leaned in to press their mouths together. Harrington hummed. 

“Do you want me to sponge you down?” Billy asked, flicking his tongue over Harrington’s lips, and Harrington snorted, snickering.

“No, you—” He smiled up, wide-eyed. “—you’re going to stay with me? Here?”

“You can’t walk.” Billy ran his knuckles along Harrington’s cheek, and Harrington grabbed his hand, laughing.

“I—it’ll be only a short while, until the doctor comes, I won't _ die,  _ I won’t...starve,” he protested, but his smile was so wide, Billy had no difficulty in answering correctly.

“Are you ordering me to leave your side,” he whispered, stroking Harrington’s fingers, “—liege of my heart?”

Harrington _ cackled,  _ then groaned, paling. He squeezed his eyes shut, and nearly crushed Billy’s hand. “Oh, don’t,” he begged, gasping. “Save your charm for when I can laugh.”

“I’m mortally offended you’d laugh.” Billy kissed his hand, biting his own lip in concern. “You’ve certainly forgone poetry, you...uncouth barbarian. There will be no serenades.”

“...you sing?” 

Billy paused, cocking his head. “...when the spirit moves me,” he answered, “—by which I mean the spirits in my flask—”

“So, you sing _ badly.”  _ Harrington’s smile widened again. “A drunken yowl.”

“Like a cat,” Billy confessed, untruthfully, to see Harrington’s eyes sparkle again as he attempted not to laugh.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, closing his eyes again. “Do not tease me, mercy.”

“Shall I let you sleep?” Billy asked, tucking a bloody hank of Harrington’s hair back and behind his ear.

“No,” Harrington whispered, flapping his hand out, grasping Billy’s tightly. His hand was cold, and felt damp, and Billy covered it with his other hand. “No, I take it back, speak.”

Billy bit his lips, then pressed them to Harrington’s palm. “As you wish, my liege.” He looked around for something to comment on, and found too much. “This was...the nursery? Play with the jack-in-the-box often, do you?”

“Usually I let you do it,” Harrington whispered, and opened his eyes, rolling his head to take in the dusty shelves.

“Maybe later,” Billy told him, squeezing his hand. The toys were the kind he saw in shopfront windows—clockwork monkeys, armies of tiny soldiers with cannons, and a theater with a real curtain, his height, in the corner. There was a dusty atlas on the window seat, left open, and small, perfect sailing ships, with anchors and rigging. On top of the shelves was a dragon ship nearly six feet long, and Billy considered the ladders and servants necessary to get it down, wondering whether Harrington had often stared at it forlornly, wishing to play. “Looks like you could summon an entire armada.”

“Oh, I could,” Harrington laughed, and winced. “Tommy would rouse the staff, and we’d take them down to the pond, and he’d tip me in.”

“I’ll tip him in, with interest,” Billy offered, leaning to the side to see the dragon’s face. “Is that...Gauvin? Max would talk of _ nothing else  _ but the pirate queen and her dragon, on our journey—” Harrington bit his lip, then stuck his tongue in his cheek, looking like an idiot, and Billy laughed. “She caught your imagination as well,” he said, smiling up at the ship. “How old were you?”

“...young,” Harrington admitted.

“Did you buy a fancy hat?” Billy asked, his grin widening. “Did you carry a toy sword and gun?”

“I...named my pony after Gauvin,” Harrington said with a grimace. “And yes.”

“Do you still have the hat?”

“Somewhere,” Harrington replied, and sighed, watching him. He snorted softly, then asked, “Would...you like to hear the story of Jacqueline de Corriveau, the pirate queen?” 

“I would, absolutely, yes,” Billy said, turning to face him, but Steve shook his head, pointing. 

“The magic lantern,” he said, waving his arm at a low shelf with a handled case on it. 

“You have slides about her?” Billy squeezed Harrington’s hand one last time, and lowered it, before walking over and hefting the case. “...and your pony in here?”

“I couldn’t lift it, so I used to just leave it on the bed,” Harrington admitted, and Billy’s lips thinned, his theories about tiny lonely Harrington seeming likely.

When he placed it next to Harrington, he tried to jar the bed as little as possible. Still, Harrington grunted, his jaw working as Billy crawled up beside him. Billy bit his lips together, clenching his fists to avoid patting uselessly at Harrington’s leg, and Harrington glanced at them, and smiled. 

He cocked his head, biting his lip, and raised his eyebrows, and Billy leaned in closer for a kiss. He rolled to his stomach, half on top of the magic lantern case, so as to lick more deeply into Harrington’s mouth. 

Billy had the feeling no one had taken their time, courting Harrington—he certainly wasn’t, fearing the onset of common sense on Harrington’s part—but he had a few hours to spare to make sure someone was properly appreciating Harrington’s mouth, and the shift from startled to sly in his grin. 

When he started to pant, his lips red from Billy’s, and squirm against the bed, Billy slid a hand down and under the edge of Harrington’s trousers. “No—no, wait,” Harrington whispered, and Billy pulled his hand back. 

“Does it hurt?”

Harrington glared at him, teeth clenched. 

“I can tug your jack-in-the-box later,” Billy whispered, kissing his forehead.

“Wait, I—I can—” Harrington flapped his hand over, and Billy laughed, kissing him again. 

“You can’t,” he whispered against Harrington’s mouth, biting at the man's lower lip, and letting it pull through his teeth. 

Harrington groaned, twitching. “I could at least—I can—”

“Mmm,” Billy hummed back, leaning his face into Harrington’s neck. “Tell me about the Pirate Queen.”

Harrington laughed, trailing off into a pained mutter. “Bastard. Tempting— _ devil.” _

“That is all true,” Billy ran his thumb along Harrington’s side, and he made an undignified wheezing yelp, and then a growling moan, like a stuffed toy. 

“I changed my mind,” he muttered, red-faced.

Billy leaned to whisper against his hair, “Show me your magic lantern show.”

“Set it up, then,” Harrington muttered back, and Billy scooted down, grimacing at Harrington’s hiss at the movement of the bed. He opened the case on a marvel of brass, copper, and glass lenses, lifted it out, and Harrington reached over to tap it to life. A flame leapt up inside, like the lanterns along the steep trail up the mountain, and Billy jerked back, then leaned in, squinting through his fingers. 

“It’s not hot,” he realized aloud.

“I’m not allowed to set my room on fire,” Harrington said, smiling, and straining as he patted at the case. 

Billy tipped it towards him, raising his eyebrows. "Were you trying to make dragon fire in here?"

Harrington huffed. “There—was reason, for that rule.”

“...what are cannons for, after all.” Billy nodded, eyeing the tiny soldiers, and Harrington smacked a slide into his hand, choking on a laugh. 

“I knew you’d understand.”

The slide barely showed on the shelves, and Billy frowned over, then clambered gingerly off the bed to roll down a screen. It showed, shakily lettered, _ Being A General Hiftory Of The Remarkable Actionf And Adventuref of P Y R A T E Jacqueline de Corriveau _ . Billy stopped, then slowly turned. “Harrington.”

“Never mind,” Harrington muttered, grabbing another pillow, and pulling it over his face.

“...Harrington,” Billy whispered, circling the bed to crouch at his side. “Did you _ make  _ these slides? You wrote that, didn’t you. How _ old _ were you?!”

“Let me die,” Harrington moaned into the pillow.

Billy turned to regard the screen. “Harrington. I’ll tell your future lovers you build a man up, then leave him like this. Leave him hungry.”

“I should have shoved you off the ferry,” Harrington muttered, then grimaced, sitting up enough to tuck the pillow under his head. “Fine. Come over here.”

“Anything, my pirate king, pirate king,” Billy sang, watching Harrington’s cheeks flush as he rattled through the slides. 

“Do you know the story of how she—”

“Hold up,” Billy said, waving, and drew his keepsake out of his shirt, pointing its aperture at Harrington. “—Max will want to hear this.”

Harrington just looked at him for a long second, then pulled out a slide. “...do you know the story of how she acquired her dragon, Gauvin?” Billy grinned, waiting, and Harrington’s mouth quirked. He cleared his throat. “...you know her beginning.”

“She was kidnapped—” Billy answered, but Harrington huffed a laugh. 

“Not exactly.” He handed over a new slide, and Billy fished out the previous, half expecting it to be hot despite the rules against child-Harrington setting his bed on fire. The new slide was a child’s drawing of a ship—three-masted, and a beach, with a line of...people? Billy squinted at the art. 

“Enough skulls, do you think?”

Harrington made a face at him. “It _ was  _ kidnapping, but it was also a different crime, called slavery. _ Selling  _ people to be chained up, and forced to work for no pay, until they died. Their children, after them.”

“What?!” Billy stared, the childish picture no longer quite as amusing. “Who would—that can’t be—”

“It was a burgeoning trade, until Jacqueline de Corriveau,” Harrington smiled. “Until it had her attention.”

“How—how widespread?!” Billy asked, his voice barely emerging, such was his horror.

“A few trade routes,” Harrington said. “A few ports. The structure was in place to expand, and they thought—they thought they were protected,” he laughed. “By their money, and their power.”

“Who?!” Billy whispered, wide-eyed, and Steve narrowed his eyes. 

“Do you want to see the magic lantern show?” he asked, and Billy pretended to button his lips.

“First,” Harrington began, in the tones of one reciting a familiar fairy tale. “First, the slavers took her friends, while she protected her family. Then, they took her family, while she hunted for her friends. 

“Finally, she let the twenty strongest capture her, to find out where they were going,” Harrington said, handing over another slide. This time it was a woman in a huge tricorner hat, punching the air, while a bunch of bodies flew away from her fist. “But she wasn’t fighting hard, because she wanted to know where they’d taken everyone…” he trailed off, and Billy turned to crawl closer, when another slide smacked into his hand. It was two women this time, holding hands high in the air, one in the hat, the other with a hook hand. “She freed the captives on the ship, and asked about her friends, and her family, and learned they—they had already gone.” 

The pictures were exuberant stick figures, and Billy longed to see the rest of the slides, but Harrington's skin had gone _ grey.  _ “Harrington,” Billy whispered, eyeing his leg. “Maybe you should rest.”

“Mmm. Some of the captives," Harrington said doggedly, "—agreed to come with her. To steal the ship, and rescue their families,” he said, handing over another slide—a _ fleet  _ of ships, with faces. Billy covered a grin at the now-familiar cutlass-waving hat wearer standing on the deck of the the biggest one. “She did not find her family first, or second, but by the time she did, she was the Pirate Admiral of a fleet of ships taken by slaves, and in less than a year, there was no safety for slavers in the waters between Europe, and Africa, and the Americas.”

“Good.” Billy raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. “How could—surely that wouldn’t work _ well? Stealing  _ people? Someone would find out, they’d find them, and rescue—”

“It made money,” Harrington said, laughed sharply, and paled, clenching his teeth. “The right people looked away. But she made herself the Pirate Queen, and she was—she didn’t care where they were going, she freed them. The slaves to pick the Queen of England’s tea, even, headed to India. And—she made powerful people angry.”

“They _ knew?”  _ Billy whispered, accepting a new slide of a fleet with frowning little faces, surrounding her single ship in a mass of clouds and lightning. The pirate queen held the cutlass outstretched, standing on top of her main mast. "They _ knew  _ the workers were kidnapped?! The _ Queen—” _

Steve nodded. “And...they came for her. They sent soldiers. But she had the first captain’s cutlass, still, and—” Harrington paused to take a deep breath, and Billy watched him, biting his lip. “—he was an _ evil  _ man. He had—the things she had seen on that ship haunted her, and the cutlass was always, always cold. So she held it up, and she yelled for the Devil.”

Billy waited for the slide of the Devil, hearing her call, but Harrington didn’t move. 

“She yelled for him, and she said, ‘Devil! I have here the most evil that there is in this world, why don’t you take it?’” The bed squeaked as Billy leaned in, and Harrington smiled at the box of slides. “She lit the fuse to her barrels of gunpowder, and then the Devil came, and he said, ‘Why didn’t you wait for me? You’ll die too.’ She said, ‘That doesn’t matter.’ He said, ‘Ask and I’ll save you,’ and she said, ‘You aren’t anybody I’m wanting to owe a favor, boy.’”

The cadence of Harrington’s voice had changed as he remembered the familiar words, and Billy leaned his chin on his hand, wondering whether it had been a picture book, or a particularly grisly bedtime story. He tried not to think about the favor he’d demanded of Harrington.

“‘A wager, then,’ said the Devil.” Harrington growled for the devil-voice, and Billy felt his cheeks getting tired with smiling, as he accepted a slide that turned out to be the pirate queen herself, her cutlass in one hand, and what might have been a parrot in the other. She was pointing both at a frowning imp that seemed to be floating in midair, slightly crooked. “‘Flip a coin. You lose, and you enter the briny deep. You _ win,’  _ said the Devil, ‘and I save you, your treasure, and your life.’”

“Not a bad deal,” Billy whispered, not wanting to interrupt, and Harrington shook his head. 

“It was a good deal. She flipped the coin, and as it flipped, she saw it change to heads on both sides, for that’s what she had called—and she was more trouble on Earth than the Devil wanted in all of Hell.”

Billy covered his mouth against a full belly laugh, and Harrington smirked, turning the next slide in his hand. 

“He gathered all the gold, and silks, and cotton she’d taken from the slave ships and took them into Hell. Then he brought back a great blackness, a piece of Hell itself, and as the fuse burned low, he formed it into the great dragon, Gauvin.” The slide of the dragon’s forming was not dignified, with the crooked floating imp grabbing at the cautious dragon’s big round startled eyes. “She ran up Gauvin’s neck, and it grabbed the best ship amongst them, and shook the slavers out.”

The slide with the intent smoke-dragon shaking a ship in midair, and a load of angry falling slavers had Billy laughing so hard his lungs hurt.

“Gauvin flew her high, high above the explosion, where they circled until there were only scraps of wood left. Once she had her dragon to carry her ship, she rode all around the world, chasing down the last of the slavers with the dragon's black flames that burn underwater. Some of the slavers were...very powerful. It took years, tracing letters, and finding names, but she hunted them down. And that,” here Harrington handed over a last slide of the pirate queen on the dragon’s back—Billy wasn’t sure why, from the side of a flying dragon, he could see all of every single appendage—“that is how,” Harrington finished, “—my...father died.”

“What,” Billy choked, scrambling to close his keepsake, to stop it remembering Harrington’s voice. “What—your—”

“I stopped playing pirate, then,” Harrington told the ceiling. “I thought she might come for me, and my toys, bought with his dirty money.”

Billy grabbed the lantern, and moved it and the slides off to a pile next to the bed, before carefully crawling to lie alongside Harrington again. “...if she comes, I’ll use her own methods. I’ll point a parrot at her,” he said, and Harrington snorted a laugh, swallowing hard.

“My hero always.”

“You should rest,” Billy whispered, glancing back out the window, and wondering whether he was going to have to track down a doctor himself. Harrington’s cold hand closed over his, and he settled in to wait.

The clock chimed an hour after Harrington’s eyes had closed, and still Billy sat, stroking his thumb down the side of Harrington’s jaw and neck, and sliding his fingers through his hair. It chimed another quarter hour, and Harrington rolled his head away. Billy’s side felt cold, without snores pressed into it, and he winced as he tried to uncrick his neck. He sat up, watching Harrington crinkle his nose, then turn farther into his pillow. 

Billy waited, lying back on his elbows, for another quarter hour, finally nudging Harrington’s good leg with his foot, but Harrington snored on, and so he sat up, rubbing his face. He sighed, looking at the keys on the desk, then braced himself over Harrington’s shoulder, and pressed stubbly kisses into the soft skin of his neck. Harrington shivered, but didn’t stir, and Billy finally drew himself away. 

The keyring was massive. It got him into Harrington’s desk—a dead end, as he’d suspected, but he unclasped his keepsake necklace and swung it over the whole mess he’d made. “Finders keepers,” he whispered, thinking of Max. “Losers weepers, finders keepers…”

It didn’t so much as waver meaningfully. He looked at the ring of keys again, and wiped his hands on his trousers, before walking around to crouch next to Harrington’s side of the bed and pinch his nose. 

Harrington snorted awake, flapped a hand out, and yanked Billy’s close, hugging it to his chest.

Billy groaned, dropping his face to the edge of the bed. The eiderdown felt cold against the heat in his cheeks. He leaned there for a while, watching Harrington sleep, before drawing his hand away. 

The keyring opened Harrington’s wardrobe, and his bureau—even the small, secret false-bottomed drawer that contained only a tied bunch of lavender, turning to dust. He swung his pendant over it, just in case. That done, he sat back on the floor, and looked out the window, wondering whether he should close the drawers back up, or whether Harrington would wake, and see them, and throw him out. In the end he dropped the rifled papers back in the drawers and pushed them closed, wondering whether Max would be proud to see him preserving the _ chance  _ at Harrington not finding out. _ I could lie to him indefinitely, then,  _ he thought, jangling the keys in his hand. Harrington grunted, rolling onto his back, and Billy jangled them again. 

Harrington slept on. 

Twirling his pendant led to a tug towards the east wing, and Billy ran his fingers through his hair, turning in a circle on the marble. It clacked under his boots, and he wandered over to lean his elbows on the gallery railing, looking out over the front hall, and the chandeliers, and letting the iron turn his stomach sour and his knees to jelly. He dropped his face in his arms, taking a long breath of soot and dust, and then set his shoulders, and went to break into the rooms of Harrington’s dead father. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Woohoo, thanks so much for reading to the end! Lemme know if you liked my story--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD**
> 
> (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)


	5. Under the influence of hot water and warm kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy didn't expect to get in this deep (in the bathtub, or in love.)

The key turned easily, with a tingle of magic that frizzed Billy's curls, and he swore under his breath and stroked them down again as he slid inside. He unclipped his pendant again, letting it swing, but it whirled in such a strident circle, fixing on nothing, that he rolled his eyes and put it back on, and pulled out his handkerchief. He wiped his hands carefully before opening the great desk, sitting the ring of iron keys down with a shuddery sigh, and then sneezed powerfully as the avalanche of dusty paper, quills, and envelopes flooded over his forearms to the floor. He sighed, sneezed again, and began making piles.

There was nothing he recognized. Nothing with his own father’s name, nothing about their joint venture—nothing, he was beginning to suspect, at _ all  _ —and he was beginning to wonder if he could  _ be  _ so lucky, if he could honestly write and say it must be locked in a bank, somewhere, behind document checks and out of his reach, when the windows lit with the glow of lanterns, and he leaned to see a carriage pull up to the front door.

He locked up as quickly as he could, the numbness from the iron making him drop the keys. The lush carpets kept the floor silent through the east wing, and he ran as softly as he could down the flights of stairs, leaning against the wall to catch his breath while Thomas Hagen shouted through the door. Billy groaned, and after frowning around one last time for a servant, opened it to be met by a _ screech  _ of his name, and Max abruptly hanging from his neck like some idiot had made a necklace out of the anchor of a ship. 

“Billy,” she mumbled, letting her swinging leg connect with his shin, and he swallowed a yell, hugging her to him. “He said you fell off your _ horse _ —”

“I did not.” Billy narrowed his eyes at Thomas, who shrugged, pushing past them.

“He said you were _ attacked—” _

Billy was wishing heartily that he’d shoved Thomas Hagen off the ferry when he’d had the chance, when a fluffy creature smelling of mushrooms struggled to hop up the stairs, huffing at Thomas like it wished the same. 

“Someone needed a _ doctor?”  _ it panted, and Billy dropped Max, grabbing her hand and pulling her over to help the creature with the bag balanced on its top. It was only about two feet high.

“We do apologize.” Billy gave his most charming smile, and it fluffed at him. He took the bag, bowing over it. “Had I only known you were arriving,” he said, flirting automatically, and ushering it to the stairs, “—we’d have dressed for dinner.”

“Doctor Lion’s-Mane was needed in town,” Max panted, squeezing his hand as they climbed. “The river’s flooding. When he couldn’t get on the ferry, Will decided to _ swim—” _

“The child’s half-frozen,” the doctor put in, making a clicking sound. Billy wondered whether it had a tongue. “We were followed here. They tried to lure your sister out of the carriage.”

Billy must have nearly crushed Max’s hand in his grip, because she winced, tapping his wrist, and he let go. 

She grabbed his hand again. “I didn’t know what was going _ on,”  _ she hissed. “You might have picked me  _ up.  _ Lucas and Dustin came to get me—”

“Who are Lucas and Dustin,” he asked evenly, watching Thomas run ahead to Harrington’s room. 

“They—they danced—Lucas taught us to dance.”

Billy nodded, tucking the bag under his arm so he could keep holding Max’s hand, and frowning at the doctor, who was slowing, now that they’d reached the third staircase. “I remember him,” he said, quirking his mouth at Max, who squeezed his hand. 

“Dustin met one of those...water horses,” Max told him, shuddering. “It speaks, it’s horrible, but it was hurt—”

“They—are usually—safe—” the doctor wheezed. “Something—something has—happened. The—the Lady would not—she would never—five _ children taken—children—” _ It stopped on the stairs, collapsing into a lower, wider pile of fluff. “I-I beg your—please pardon—me.”

“Ah, we bandaged him up, he—he’ll live a bit longer, take your time,” Billy reassured the fluffy mushroom doctor, shifting his feet. “The bleeding’s stopped, anyway—”

“We couldn’t cross the river,” Max said, pushing him down a couple of steps so she could reach to brush grit out of his hair. She narrowed her eyes, pressing near a tender spot on his cheekbone. “...there were eels the size of _ oak trees,  _ Billy. The horses spooked.” 

Billy rolled his eyes, grinning at her fussing. _ “Oak trees.  _ Really.”

“Yes!” she growled. 

“One of them smashed the bridge,” the doctor confirmed, and Billy’s hands tightened spasmodically on Max’s wrists.

“The...stone bridge,” he asked. “The _ stone arch bridge?  _ Or—or is there a plank across—somewhere—”

“As big as _ trees,  _ Billy!” Max hissed, narrowing her eyes, and Billy swallowed hard. “They were like the pictures in that book you used to read me, with the hydra!”

“My sister’s favorite bedtime story. I am very proud you didn’t try to fight them,” he told her, and her cheeks flushed.

“...you shouldn’t say things like that when you’re _ joking,”  _ she muttered, and he squeezed her to him, taking a shaky breath against her hair as she mumbled annoyance into his shoulder.

“I _ am  _ glad you are here,” he told her, and she squeezed him back. “To defend my honor,” he whispered in her ear, and she choked on a snort, and punched him in the ribs.

The mushroom doctor puffed again—it was like watching bread rise magically fast, Billy thought, fascinated—and began climbing again, fluffing up the stairs. Billy wondered whether it had legs underneath, like a person in petticoats. “I think Harrington and I found out why your ‘Lady’ is—” he began, and the soft little voice cut him off.

“—trying to steal _ children?”  _ The doctor fluffed larger, and Billy smiled uncertainly.

“Y-yes. We found, uh, there was a camp. Where the little girl from the ball—”

“Ellie,” Max put in, and he nodded.

“—where Ellie was held, near the mound. Sounded like...strangers? Not people from the town? They held her there, threatened her mother. They—they wanted to break in to the mountain, to the—the inside? Of—of whatever is in the mountain. Used cannons.”

“...what,” the doctor hissed. 

“Iron cannonballs,” Billy admitted, wincing. “Maybe iron filings. The waterfall was running red with it.”

“And the breach is unguarded,” Doctor Lion’s-Mane said softly. “No good shall come of this. Young Master Hagen said—surely you did not encounter the—the Nuckelavee.”

“That is what Wheeler called it,” Billy said, keeping his voice even, as Max’s eyes darted between him and the doctor. 

“...may the Lady have mercy,” it whispered.

When they got to Harrington’s door, Thomas let the doctor in, but stepped to block Billy. “I don’t think we require your services.” He smiled falsely from one to the other, packing more powder down the barrel of Max’s internal flintlock than was entirely safe. Billy held her back by the shoulder as she growled. Thomas slammed the door in their faces, and Max started to unsheathe her sword. 

Billy yanked her close. “It may not be here,” he told her, and she stared at him. “Whatever it is.”

“Not...here?”

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it,” he whispered, trying to bite back a smile, “—something valuable, he’d put it in a—a bank, or something—”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you think it’s hidden from you?”

His heart started pounding, and he swallowed, trying not to imagine the words in his father’s voice. “I—I haven’t looked everywhere, there might—it’s a _ castle— _ I—”

_ “Billy,”  _ she hissed. “Just tell him you can’t find it. You can lie to him in a letter. Even you can lie  _ on paper.  _ He won’t  _ come  _ here.”

“He’d want to talk face-to-face.” Billy shook his head, pushing her hands away, and turning away to sit on a loveseat matching the one he’d sat on, carrying Harrington. _ A matching loveseat for every stair landing,  _ he thought, raising his eyebrows. “You know I can’t lie to my father. I go all to pieces.”

“You _ could,”  _ she argued. “Billy, look around, Harrington wants to  _ marry a girl with antlers.  _ You can tell him everything. He won’t mind pointed ears.” She reached to touch one of Billy's, and he smacked her hand away.

“Even—even if I _ were— _ I’ve  _ lied  _ to him, he thinks—he thinks I’m some kind of  _ hero.  _ And what if it—what if it _ isn't _ true, Max?" 

"Why would she lie?" Max hissed. "Why would your mother lie about something like that?"

"You read her...letters, if they could be called that,” Billy said, and laughed, pressing his hands together between his knees. “It’s true, she was crazy. She wasn’t some—fairy deer princess, she was—she was locked away for good  _ reason,  _ Max—”

“It’s true she didn’t make sense,” Max replied, leaning her chin in her hand, familiar with the beats of this conversation. “But if she was—if she was one of the Fair Folk, they don’t, they don’t make the same _ kind  _ of sense, Billy, I talked to Porridge—”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, snorting, and wiping his eyes.

“Dustin’s water-horse, Porridge. He found her eating the rubbish. She's just a baby, she likes porridge with chopped apples, just like Dustin does—anyway.” She paused to clear her throat, and smooth her trousers. “Porridge is smart, but she doesn’t make sense, she keeps talking about ‘the child’. We don’t know whether the Lady wants Will, or Ellie, or—or all of us, they tried to call me into the river, they kept calling me child—”

“Don’t you dare,” he told her, forcing a laugh through his throat. “When did you—you _ talked  _ to the—the voices? Max—”

“I talked to _ Porridge,”  _ she said stoutly. “When Dustin and Lucas called earlier—”

“You invited a horse to your room?” Billy interrupted, trying to imagine it managing the stairs. _ Only in Hawkins,  _ he thought. “Harrington says they’re dangerous—”

“I didn’t have a _ horse  _ in my _ room,”  _ she hissed back. “Don’t be ridiculous—” 

“You left the inn,” he breathed. _ “Max—” _

“We _ ate  _ together,” she groaned. “Porridge had _ porridge.  _ At the _ inn.” _

The idea of sitting a bench next to a horse and its pint of bitter was even _ odder,  _ and Billy stifled a snicker, his shoulders relaxing.

“Porridge is barely a horse, anyway,” Max huffed. “She’s four stilts under a stuffed toy, still, really, I told Dustin to bring her again. You’d love her.”

“Yes,” Billy agreed, on instinct, then shook his head. “No, Max, why were your friends outside? Promise you won’t go _ adventuring,  _ not without me—”

“Don’t fuss,” she told him, rolling her eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Max,” he pressed, leaning to see her face.

“I won’t do anything _ you  _ wouldn’t do,” she said, glaring back at him, and Billy groaned into his hands, remembering how his soft morning kisses to Harrington had led him to the Nuckelavee. “Anyway,” Max said, smiling in victory, “—I talked to her. To Porridge. They’re different, Billy, she might—she might have seemed…”

“Like a lunatic?” Billy suggested, laughing and wincing as he remembered the scribbled letters in impenetrable handwriting, half in a language he wasn’t sure was real. He’d read and reread them anyway.

Max jabbed her elbow unerringly at his kidney. “Your father is not _ patient,”  _ she hissed. “He—he doesn’t _ listen,  _ he—”

Billy bit his lip, thinking, and Max stopped, then reached over to squeeze his hand. He sighed. “That’s...worse, almost,” he told her, laughing. “To think she may be locked away, and she’s some...Fair...person, away from her...trees, or wherever she lives.”

“You do need to find her,” Max nodded, thumping their shoulders together. “But I don’t—I’m only—I don’t want you to—” She stumbled over her words, then bent from the waist, blowing air through her cheeks in a loud wet buzz. 

“I see why you have so many admirers,” Billy told her. "It's your eloquence." 

Max sat up, swung around and started kicking him in the leg, he yelped, and grabbed her boot, and she sighed, slumping forward to flop into his lap. “Whatever she is,” she said slowly, “—it doesn’t change _ you.  _ You would never hurt me.”

Billy stroked his fingers down her back, wishing he could know she was correct. “I hope not,” he told her, and she sighed.

“Do you...want me to keep Harrington distracted?” she asked, flopping back against his shoulder, and groaning at the painted ceiling. “While you finish looking.”

Billy was still biting his lips together, considering his answer, when the doctor hopped out a few minutes later, and pouffed urgently down the stairs. Max was through the door before Thomas could stop her, drawing Billy after her by the hand. 

Now Harrington could _ move— _ his skin was smooth and unbloodied through his torn trousers, and even the color was back in his face—he swung his legs off the bed, cracked his neck, and stood. If anything, he had too _ much  _ energy, Billy thought, watching him drop into squats, alternating with stretches.

Billy watched the line of his back. “Shall I run down and ask someone to bring supper? And a bath, on our way out?” The lost opportunity to ransack Harrington’s house was enough of a blessing that he didn’t even mind leaving.

Harrington laughed, running his fingers through his hair to pull out a piece of rubble, from where he’d fallen under the hooves of the Nuckelavee. Billy found himself stepping closer, and clutched his hands into fists as Thomas stepped between them.

“I can see them out,” Thomas said, throwing an arm around Harrington, but Harrington shook his head, batting at the sand falling from his shirt. 

“It’s late, and there are...things out there, why don’t you all stay?” He shot a glance at Billy, mouth quirked. “I’ve got a nicer bath.”

“Ye-yes, let’s stay,” Max said, nodding, and Billy was about to elbow her for acting suspicious when she squeezed his hand tighter, and smoothed her fingers over the jagged, bloodstained rip in his sleeve. She swallowed hard, and he tugged his hand out of hers to put it around her shoulders.

“Idiot,” she whispered, rubbing her nose. "Why do I even worry about you."

When Billy looked up, Harrington was grinning at them. “I should probably return him clean,” he told Max.

She snorted, wiping her eyes. “Please do, he reeks, wash him first.”

“I’ll do that,” Harrington promised, shrugging Thomas’ arm off his shoulders, and he walked over to brush his fingers over the same tender bit of Billy’s face where Max had prodded him. His fingers were gentle, checking the scraped elbow on which Billy’d slid down the stone. He slid his thumb through a rip in Billy's shirt to stroke it along his ribs. 

Billy ducked his head, feeling blood start warming his skin as Harrington checked for hurts like he was a purebred horse. 

“Ah-I-I’m hungry,” Max stuttered, backing away, and Billy opened his mouth to reply, but Harrington leaned in, cupping Billy’s jaw with both hands, and he forgot what he’d planned to say.

Harrington smiled into Billy’s eyes as he called, “Tommy. Could you help Ms. Mayfield find some supper?”

Thomas froze. Max, proving wrong every rude thing Billy had ever thought about her, grabbed his elbow and dragged him from the room even as he hissed and swore, leaving Billy steadying himself against the bureau while Harrington pressed soft kisses to his face. 

Once Harrington was finished kissing around the bruised scrape up Billy’s cheekbone, he went on to kiss along his forearm, and Billy laughed, letting his head thump against Harrington’s shoulder. 

The door clicked closed after Thomas and Max. “I’m glad you talked me into bringing you,” Harrington whispered, his lips against Billy’s neck, and Billy shuddered.

“...told you I’d make myself useful,” he whispered back. “Make it worth your while, letting me—”

“Letting you save my life,” Harrington said, his teeth clicking against Billy’s as he tried to talk and kiss at the same time, “—letting you save my friends—”

“...not sure I can manage that every time,” Billy said, laughing, “—I can only throw myself at so many monsters before I won’t survi—”

“Hush, don’t,” Harrington breathed against his lips, and Billy nodded, lifting his jaw so Harrington could press kisses along his throat, and letting his eyes drift shut. Harrington’s hands slid along the rips in the back of his shirt, and paused. “...you must have been sunning yourself with your shirt off,” he mumbled. 

Billy laughed, remembering his reflection in the mirror above the bureau he was pressed against, and somewhat hoping Harrington was the sort of romantic idiot to compare his freckles to constellations—or better yet, he thought, while allowing himself to be manhandled to face the mirror—the stars the night before, over the balcony. Harrington ran warm hands over Billy’s thighs, and rocked their hips together. Billy opened his eyes as Harrington slid his fingers around the largest rip in Billy’s shirt. “...you have...scars,” he said, and Billy laughed.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

Harrington paused, watching Billy’s reflected face, then bent to kiss his back through the tear in his shirt. “They’re like a map. This one could be the river,” he said, running his thumb over it, and Billy shivered, watching his own face redden in the mirror. 

Harrington kept talking. “This one’s the road. The freckles along here are the shops along High Street.” His breath tickled, and Billy bit back a grin, his eyes stinging. “These—” Harrington said, his fingers stroking lower, “—South Street. I guess you—you belong here. In Hawkins.” He looked up and met Billy’s eyes in the mirror, their cheeks flushed an identical red. “You can’t ever leave again, right, not with a map of the town on you—”

Billy leaned back to kiss him, sideways and clumsy, and Harrington laughed, sliding his fingers through the gap in Billy’s shirt, and along his back, dipping into his breeches. Billy smacked his hand away, yanking his shirt out of his breeches and over his head, and nearly elbowing Harrington in the face in his rush to throw his vest and shirtsleeves around the room. 

Harrington hummed, wrapping his arms around Billy again, and kissing the base of his neck. “We should take that bath,” he said, his voice buzzing against the tender skin under Billy’s ear. 

The bath room was as resplendent as the rest of Harrington House, with a marble tub set in the floor, water that jetted from the mouths of swans—“Your swans are very ill, Harrington,” Billy whispered, and dodged Harrington’s shove—and an actual crystal chandelier, in case you needed fifty magical lights to soap your ass.

“Some people have more trouble than others,” Harrington replied, straight-faced, then started snickering at Billy’s flat stare.

“Do you mean...Thomas,” Billy asked, tugging Harrington’s shirt out of his breeches, and sliding his hands up the man’s back. 

Harrington snorted. “If he’s taken baths in here, it was in secret,” he whispered, slipping his fingers down the front of Billy’s breeches, and Billy grinned, yanking Harrington’s shirt off over his head. 

“Secret bathing,” he said, nodding. “I wouldn’t put it past him. Sneaking in here and—”

“He thinks you want my money,” Harrington said, pushing away to unbutton his own breeches, and huffing a laugh. “I told him that can’t be all of it.” He glanced over, then down again. “—you wouldn’t—there’s no way you’d take that kind of risk, just for money. You would—you aren’t _ stupid—” _

“...you think there’s _ some chance  _ I want you for more than money,” Billy repeated, to be sure.

“It could have been a gamble, Tommy said. You save me and _ know  _ I’ll be grateful, I’m—he always says I’m a bit simple.”

_ “Tommy  _ is an ass,” Billy growled, pulling Harrington close, and feeling him laugh.

“You wouldn’t risk death for a gamble,” he said, glancing up to look over Billy’s expression, then down.

Billy, privately, begged to differ, but took a deep breath. He felt like he could see the way through ahead—a glimmer of light guiding him to more soft breaths against Harrington’s lips, under the blankets, if he could manage not to fall off the sheer edges of the path, and avoid the rockslides of his father’s plans. The way forward to Harrington lay before him like a collapsed mine shaft, he reflected—blocked by his own incompetence. He could set charges, and blow through—or he could be inept at that as well, and close the way forever. 

He decided to light the fuse, and see. “My m—” His voice cracked, and he took another breath, and blew it out through his cheeks. “My m-mother is in a sanatorium,” he said. “I don’t know where. He—my father worked for yours, he visited here, he—he said he—met her here. He said she—she came in the night and gave me up, she was afraid she’d—hurt me. I stopped breathing underwater, she said.” 

Harrington went still.

Billy nodded, and kept talking, lowering his eyes to preserve the mystery of Harrington’s expression. “—she kept saying I wasn’t right, I—I was no child of hers, he—he says he didn’t know she had—madness. Running through her. She tried to drown me again, so he had to take me. He had her locked up.”

“What are you saying?” Harrington asked, pulling Billy closer, his fingers stroking up the ears Billy had stared at in the mirror, trying to see points. 

“I’m more likely about to run mad than do magic,” Billy said with a laugh, swallowing against Harrington’s warm hand on his face. “I want to help her. She writes, sometimes. She’s asked to see me, he won’t tell me where she _ is—” _

“Why won’t he tell you where she is?” Harrington’s voice was level, but he’d stopped stroking Billy’s cheek, and hair.

“He wants something of your father’s,” Billy admitted, watching Harrington’s jaw work. “I—I don’t know what, exactly. I’m—I’m here to search. But I’d—I’d never see her if a monster killed me, Harrington.” He gripped Harrington’s arm with both hands, preventing him from pulling away. “That’s true enough. I wasn’t thinking of her, when I ran in.”

Harrington pulled back the hand Billy wasn’t throttling, and Billy scrambled to press both hands over the man’s mouth. 

“Let me finish,” Billy whispered, and took a slow breath. “I was only thinking of you,” he emphasized, watching Harrington’s face, and wondering whether to let go, or step back, or take Max and leave, when Harrington’s hand on the side of Billy’s head slid around to his nape, pulling him forward into a tight embrace. Billy took shallow breaths, began to slide his arms around Harrington in return, and then rested them on Harrington’s hips.

“At the dance—” Harrington whispered, against the side of his head, and Billy pushed through his mad urge to giggle and took a shuddery breath against Harrington’s neck and hair, inhaling the dust of the ruins, and sweat, and the salt fog that had blown off the bottom of the Falls. Harrington’s skin was cold, and a little sticky, his muscles gleaming in the light from the chandelier.

“I didn’t know who you were,” Billy whispered. “Thomas told me. I was already watching you. Max told me you’d rescued children. Fought monsters.” 

Harrington pushed him away again, watching his face. “Tell me what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t know,” Billy said, trying to stand still. “He said your father received something, before he died. He doesn’t know exactly what it was.”

“We can look in the morning,” Harrington said, and Billy bit back another bewildered peal of laughter, reaching out to touch Harrington’s hand and chest before he realized he was doing it. 

“You—you’ll permit me to look?” he asked, to be sure, and Harrington nodded.

“I will help in your search.”

“How on earth did I happen on someone like you,” Billy mumbled, wrapping his arms around Harrington’s neck, and doing his best to kiss his gratitude into Harrington’s mouth. Harrington held him bruisingly tight, yanking at the buttons on Billy’s breeches, and Billy let him, his head too full of frothy, bubbling joy at the idea of having it _ over,  _ Harrington not furious, and Billy’s father unable to wave secrets over his head like the Sword of Damocles. 

When they were both freed from the tyranny of clothing, in a cloud of dust and the smell of unwashed men who’d had a fright, Billy knelt. Harrington yanked him upright again, grabbed his face, kissed it, and then _ flung him bodily  _ into the enormous tub. The tiles along the bottom were also of swans, and Billy rolled his eyes, kicking off them to splash to the surface. He shoved water and dripping curls out of his face, only to be knocked back in the wave of Harrington jumping in and grabbing him around the waist. Billy yelped, splashing with his arms wide, but Harrington didn’t push him under—though he did use his free hand to make a great wave into Billy’s face. The water smelled of flowers, steaming and covered in soft foam. Billy jumped lightly from the floor of the bath, lying back so his weight pushed Harrington under the water, and Harrington yelled bubbles, and let go. 

Under the layer of bubbles, Billy couldn’t see him, so he edged over to grip one of the gold swans with both hands, in anticipation of attack. The bubbles in his hair started to drip into his eyes, and he let go with one hand to push them back, just as Harrington’s hand slid out across the bath and felt around, then grabbed a chunk of soap the size of a piece of masonry, and disappeared under the bubbles again. Billy raised his eyebrows, sat on the tiled edge, and swung his legs out of the bath, uncertain why a well-meaning bath partner would need to stay underwater, grasping large heavy objects with corners to them.

Harrington surfaced, wiping his face, and blinking around. “Where are you going?”

“Hrm,” Billy hummed, without moving.

Harrington flapped a hand at him. “Come back. I’ll scrub your back.” When Billy didn’t move, Harrington swam over, reaching out to wrap a wet hand, pink with heat, around Billy’s ankle. “...you’re all over goosepimples,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb along Billy’s Achilles tendon. He set the soap down to tug at Billy’s leg with both hands. “Let me warm you up,” he whispered, leaning his head to catch Billy’s smile. “I’ll keep you afloat.”

Billy laughed. “I can swim well enough—”

“I probably shouldn’t have thrown you in, after what you said earlier,” Harrington muttered, frowning at the ankle he was holding.

Billy wiggled his toes at him, scooting closer to slide back in. The splash knocked them together. “I am very well, your Lordship,” he said against Harrington’s mouth, and kissed him.

Harrington smiled into the kiss, his lips hot from the bath against Billy’s cold ones, and ran the flats of his warm hands up and down Billy’s back. They stopped on scars, and Billy remembered he’d had his shirt on, mostly, when Harrington had pinned him against the bureau drawers, looking at his back through the torn cloth. 

Billy’s voice cracked as he laughed, wondering what to say—when he’d planned to get into Harrington House, he’d assumed he’d be jimmying open a window, or a guest at a party, not invited to Harrington’s bed. Harrington’s hands clenched at his arms, and Billy flinched. “—they—they aren’t—I’m—”

“May I see?” 

Harrington’s face was set, and Billy turned easily, his brain in a whirl of explanations. 

“I’m not a criminal,” he offered, finally. “They’re not—I stole no horses, or property, they weren’t from—”

“...thieves are horsewhipped,” Harrington said, running his thumb along one of the thickest scars. “...they were deep, or you were very young, or—” Harrington stopped talking, and swallowed. “...Hargrove. What—”

“I can’t prove I’m _ not  _ a thief,” Billy said, shrugging, and huffing a laugh. “It’s not—”

“What, no, I _ believe  _ you,” Harrington said unevenly, pulling him back into a tight embrace. He pressed open-mouthed kisses down the side of Billy’s neck, punctuating each with a squeeze. “I wouldn’t—I didn’t think  _ that,  _ I know you didn’t  _ earn  _ these.”

Billy laughed, his vision blurring. “You—you can’t know that,” he said hoarsely.

“I know it,” Steve said against the base of his skull, kissing it, and reaching around Billy for the soap. He scrubbed his hands together in front of Billy, then pushed him up against the side of the tub, sliding hot soapy hands along his shoulderblades. His thumbs stroked along Billy’s spine, squeezing the muscles until Billy leaned his head on his arms, sighing against the edge of the tub.

His head felt like it was pounding. “It wasn’t anything I did,” Billy mumbled, and Harrington’s hands paused, then continued. “I don’t—not everyone has that—you have a spark.” He leaned his head back, fluttering his lashes, and Harrington rolled his eyes, grinning. He pushed Billy’s head away, and Billy leaned back again to rub his cold, sudsy curls on Harrington’s arms, saying, “You have something in you that people see, that—that led Wheeler, and the melodic Carol, and Doubting Thomas—”

“I was there,” Harrington said, laughing, pushing Billy’s head forward again, and rubbing the ball of his hand under Billy’s shoulderblades, so his back shivered, and he swore softly with his face still pressed against his arms.

“No less than four people rode to save you,” Billy reminded him, “—because you—have something within you that—”

“You’re saying I made you fall _ desperately  _ in love with me?” Harrington snickered, sliding his arms around Billy again, and soaping his chest.

“I’m saying I don’t have it,” Billy said, squirming in Harrington’s suddenly-stiff arms. “Whatever it is,” here he leaned his head back against Harrington’s shoulder, trying to see his expression, “—I don’t have it, and it took me some time to—to learn to make myself agreeable enough that my lack would be overlooked.” 

Harrington wasn’t responding, and Billy elbowed him. 

“That’s why I’m scarred, is all. I was the kind of child a mother wanted to drown—” He swore as Harrington yanked him around, holding his hands up to protect his face, but Harrington only stared at him. Billy laughed, waiting, and grabbed the hand Harrington lifted to touch him, but Harrington only reached out and cupped Billy’s cheek. Billy closed his eyes, leaning into the rough thumb stroking his cheekbone. He let himself be tugged forward again, so his face rested against Harrington’s neck.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Harrington growled, “—but I want to shove you under the water for thinking you should be shoved under the water—”

Billy sputtered, choking on his own unexpected laughter.

“I know,” Harrington cringed. “I could—I could drown whoever _ said  _ that to you.” He caught Billy around the waist as he bent, cackling, and pulled him close. “I could—I could push them off the waterfall. Watch them—we could take them as a gift to the Nuckelavee.”

Billy was laughing too hard to reply, tears running down his face. He took a slow breath, and kissed Harrington’s neck, snickering against his skin. “That’s my father, you know,” he whispered. “That you’re tar-and-feathering.”

“At least make him drink Tommy’s punch,” Harrington hissed. “He’ll vomit out _ everywhere,  _ once I—”

“And my mother,” Billy said, leaning his head back to watch Harrington’s face. “Don’t you think they know me better than—” He cut off at Harrington’s _ petulant bulldog  _ expression, whooping a laugh as he staggered backwards, wiping his eyes. “Harrington, stop—stop  _ pouting—”  _ He stumbled and dunked himself, and Harrington swooped upon him again, pulling him out of the water and pressing kisses to his face, and then blowing  _ air  _ into loud rude noises against Billy’s wet skin. Billy laughed harder, pushing at Harrington’s face.

“No,” Harrington said, into his hair. His voice sounded thick. _ “No.  _ I—I  _ don’t  _ think that, she’s—they’re  _ wrong—”  _ he muttered. “That’s not—that’s not how—god have  _ mercy  _ on your—” His breath was warm against Billy’s ear as he nuzzled closer, wrapping his arms around Billy’s shoulders more carefully than before. 

“What are you doing?” Billy asked finally, when Harrington had been silent for several beats. He breathed against Harrington’s shoulder, and Harrington pushed away, wading through the waist-deep water to grab a cloth before splashing back over.

Billy shivered, laughing, as Harrington wrung hot water over his head, and then dunked the cloth again, and started scrubbing him. 

“That’s all—they _ said  _ that to you?” he growled, and Billy’s eyes fluttered shut at the hot sudsy water across his collarbones, and up his neck.

“Mmm.”

“They don’t—they can’t have you back,” Harrington muttered, ignoring Billy’s snicker, and splashing the cloth over his arms. Billy grinned as he was yanked close again. He licked the water running over Harrington’s collarbone, and Harrington jerked, then narrowed his eyes. “Our map’s on you, you—you—you’re— _ fond  _ of—us.”

“That’s true,” Billy admitted willingly, kissing the wet shoulder closest to his lips. 

“Stay here,” Harrington ordered, and Billy snorted, letting his knees bend. Harrington nearly fell trying to catch him around the waist. 

“Here? Here in this house? Don’t call the ratcatcher—” Billy whispered back, sliding his arms around Harrington’s neck, and Harrington swung him around in the water, leaning in for a kiss. It was hard to ask more questions with Harrington’s tongue in his mouth, but when Harrington wouldn’t let him speak, he relaxed into it, letting himself be pushed across the bath onto a tiled seat. The cloth was perfectly rough against his skin, and he laid back with his arms along the rim of the bath.

“Nothing amiss here,” Harrington said, scrubbing Billy’s arm, and turning it in his hand to scrub each finger. Billy squinted at him. “Or here,” Harrington said, grabbing the other one, and turning it to have a look.

“Do you think you’re going to find a label?” Billy asked, quirking his mouth. “‘Billy Hargrove. Poison in excessive quantity, please drown—’”

“Need to stop up your mouth,” Harrington muttered, leaning in for another kiss. He was soft, and thorough, and for a long moment Billy let his world restrict to his mouth, and breath, and Harrington’s lips against his. He let his eyes close again as Harrington scraped soap against his scalp, squeezing the sudsy water against the base of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curious about the Pirate Queen? Find out more about that particular OC in [my Over the Garden Wall story.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642409)
> 
> **Woohoo, thanks so much for reading to the end! Lemme know if you liked my duels and romance--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD**
> 
> (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)


	6. Come from Australia, clutching at hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy wants to finish his quest. Steve wants to be more than an adventure along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone wondering about the ending...it's a fairytale. =D HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
> 
> Also, there's sex in this one, so as ever, it'll be marked before and after with a horizontal line. I don't like to put the line EXACTLY where it starts, because that's usually the middle of a conversation, but it marks the scene!
> 
> ALSO: Until this chapter, checking the wiki gave Tommy's last name as "H." alone, so I named him Hall, figuring it was at least a different number of syllables than Hopper, Holland, Hargrove, and so on, but SUDDENLY it says it's HAGEN, so I will go back and change it, darn!

Billy melted into Harrington’s hands, his head starting to feel like it was floating high over his body.

Harrington laughed when he mumbled that observation, and leaned in for a wet kiss, before rubbing _ soap into his mustache.  _ Billy smacked his hands away. Harrington whooped with laughter as Billy hacked and spat, glowering and splashing his face. The water splashed the vomiting swan faucets as Harrington staggered back, cackling, and Billy watched him, forgetting about the soap in the man’s giddy joy. 

“We should do this every day,” Harrington said breathlessly, and Billy flapped a hand out to draw him close enough to kiss. Harrington hummed against his mouth. “After hunting. The Fair Folk are just like anyone, you know, some of them are—are not good, and we get more of them here—the villagers—they depend on us hunting—” he mumbled excitedly into Billy’s kisses. “You could—you could ride with us. I’ll carry your throne around at the Hunt Ball.”

The hot water lapped at Billy’s chin, and he swallowed, his cheeks burning as his head spun. He let his eyes close as Harrington held his face. “You’re one of them too, aren’t you,” Billy whispered. “The Fair Folk. Offering me bribes. What do you want, Harrington?”

“I want you to stay,” Harrington kissed his mouth, then his cheeks, then his eyelids, and Billy burned hotter, leaning forward to rest his head against Harrington’s.

“And if I eat of your food, I can never leave?” Billy asked, grinning, and kissing him.

“Is that all it takes?” Harrington laughed, sliding his arms around Billy’s neck, hot and wet from the bath. His breath was warm against Billy’s ear. “I’ll make you a sandwich, and you’re mine forever?”

“I ate Robin’s scone, earlier,” Billy admitted, smiling helplessly, and Harrington jerked back.

“I’ll have to challenge her. Win you back, fair youth.” 

Billy started giggling at the idea of Harrington forever challenging anyone who invited him to dinner, and Harrington pulled him close again, snickering, and running careful hands through his hair. His wet fingers snagged against Billy's tangles, and so Harrington nudged him sideways, supporting his neck and head as he dunked him just far enough into the water that Billy could still see, and breathe, and feel Harrington’s other hand combing through his curls under the water. Billy groaned. “...’twill take more than tea and cakes to seduce me from your side.”

“Good,” he thought Harrington said, though it was hard to hear him with water lapping in his ears. He was rubbing some sort of lather into Billy’s hair, and Billy was losing track of the conversation. “I could carry scones around, in case.”

“Please don’t,” Billy snorted, mumbling, “—don’t stuff me like a goose every time I smile at someone else—”

“I will,” Harrington promised. “I’ll keep a screw of peppermints in my saddlebag. I’ll be ready to push one against your lips, and kiss you until the flavor is gone.”

“...that’s fine,” Billy said faintly, even hotter, only his knees and wrists bobbing at the surface of the water, his head secure in Harrington’s hands. He drifted as Harrington carefully rinsed his hair around his face and ears, and came to himself, a little, as the hand under his head lifted him back out of the water.

Harrington scooped his other arm under Billy’s legs, and carried him up the tiled stairs out of the bath. Billy leaned into the soft buffeting of cloth against his head, and let his face fall against Harrington’s neck again as he was hoisted up and hefted into the hallway. They paused before Harrington’s bedroom door, and Billy blinked back to alertness, sniggering as he realized Harrington couldn’t reach the knob. 

“Set me down,” he laughed, shivering in the cool air. 

“You’re dizzy from the hot water,” Harrington huffed, squeezing him tighter, and Billy laughed against his shoulder, and wondered whether to admit it wasn’t the water, or the heat. Harrington turned his back to the door, bending his knees to try and push the knob with his elbow, and Billy cackled, sliding his arms around the man’s neck. 

“You can put me down,” he whispered, as the latch clicked.

“Told you I could get it,” Harrington muttered, and Billy couldn’t stop laughing, wiping his eyes. 

“My mighty king,” he wheezed, and Harrington tossed him across the bed, grinning, and crawled up beside him.

Billy let his legs fall apart, as predictable as clockwork. He wrapped them around Harrington’s waist, pulling him closer, when Harrington went still, laid a warm hand on Billy’s chest, his thumb stroking through the hair there, and then pushed away to walk to the door. 

Billy sat up, his heart pounding in a less delighted way than before, and pulled a pillow over his rigid cock. “O-oh...I should find my trousers,” he muttered, as Harrington cracked the door open, then stuck his head out. 

“They’ve left food,” Harrington whispered over his shoulder, smile wide. “We’re far enough from the mountain that it’s still good. We’ll need to cart some in…” He trailed off, returning with a massive silver tray heaped with a truly northern feast of sliced meat, cheese, what looked like tubs of butter and jam, seedy bread, and—most importantly— _ oranges,  _ in Scotland. Billy wondered how far they’d traveled—Spain, probably, at the closest _.  _ “Sorry,” Harrington said, lowering it on the bed between them, and leaning in for a kiss. “I’m starving.”

Billy resisted the urge to plant his knee in the middle of the tray on the way to landing full-bodied across Harrington. He reached out and took a grape, rolling it between his fingers, and trying not to look at the trickles of water running down Harrington’s shoulders from his hair. 

“I have to feed you to keep you, after all,” Harrington told him, leaning in for a kiss, and Billy relented, turning to sit facing the tray. “Want to feed me some meat?” Harrington offered, rolling a slice and leaning to prod it against Billy’s lips. 

Billy couldn’t help but snicker, and opened his mouth to run his tongue along the slice of beef, before making an indignant noise as Harrington shoved it in. The grape fell, cold against his naked leg, and he gave a muffled yelp, glowering over as he tried to chew through the wad of dead cow in his mouth. 

“Sorry,” Harrington said, peeling an orange, but he was _ grinning  _ at it, and Billy threw the grape at his head. 

Billy finally managed to tear off the chunk of flesh Harrington had wedged in his craw, feeling like a sabertoothed lion taxidermy in a Wonders of the World exhibit, stuffed and displayed. 

“Maybe meat isn’t safe in your mouth,” Harrington said to the orange, and Billy growled. Harrington was snickering again. “Maybe I ought to—”

“Try me,” Billy hissed, patting around for the grape, and throwing it at Harrington again. 

“With this orange, I beg your forgiveness,” Harrington said, leaning in to push the sweet fruit in against Billy’s muttering. It was tart, and fresh, and Billy swallowed, covering his mouth with the back of his hand so he wouldn’t drool. 

“Maybe after a few more,” Billy huffed, accepting another slice, and licking at Harrington’s fingers. “I didn’t know the food of the Highlands was available in colors,” he told Harrington, eyeing the bread, meat, and cheese, and Harrington snorted a laugh. 

“There is fruit here, in summer,” he said, and Billy hummed doubtfully. “Berries, apples…” he leaned to pop another orange piece in Billy’s mouth, thinking. “Plums, uh, pears—I can buy you oranges. I’ll buy you oranges,” he promised, frowning from the tray to the orange in his hand.

“Harrington,” Billy said, laughing and reaching over to grab his hand and the next orange slice, “—I can live on your dirt-colored food. You don’t need to bribe me with oranges.” 

“I could buy—”

“Harrington,” Billy interrupted, leaning in to take the orange slice, and sliding Harrington’s fingers into his mouth. He pulled back with a pop. “I would stay and eat dirt. I would stay  _ with you,  _ and eat dirt.” 

Harrington opened his mouth, then closed it, ducking his head. “I’d rather buy you oranges—” he said, smiling up, and Billy leaned to swirl his tongue around the man’s fingers again. 

“I could also live on cock,” he whispered, and Harrington snorted, hooking his fingers around Billy’s lower teeth, and pulling him close enough to kiss his cheek. Billy thought they’d finally shove the tray aside, and he’d get his mouth on Harrington’s whole body again, when the man shoved him back. 

“My necklace,” Harrington muttered, unhooking the clasp, and tossing it over to his endtable.

“...I told you, it’s most likely my mind,” Billy glanced at the dark iron coil, then back to Harrington’s face. “Mad fancies. She was—”

“You said iron _ hurts?”  _ Harrington frowned at him, reaching out with another orange segment. 

“It leaves no mark,” Billy said, laughing, and licked Harrington’s fingers as he accepted the orange. “You see where I touched it last night—”

“You went still,” Harrington muttered, taking his hand to look. 

“I’m probably loony,” Billy repeated, no longer worried about phrasing it gently. “I’ll start talking to people who aren’t there.” He bit his lips, taking a piece of cheese, and breaking it up into crumbs. “I could hurt someone. You. My sister.”

“No,” Harrington said, and Billy looked up, opening his mouth to point out that telling his mind _ not  _ to run completely mad wasn’t likely to work, but Harrington cut him off by shoving another piece of orange between his lips. “No, that’s—that won’t happen. She was confused. She didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“...even if that’s true, I would have died,” Billy pointed out, swallowing. 

“You will be _ fine,”  _ Harrington rolled his eyes. “If—if you try to drown anyone, I’ll stop you.”

“...my…” Billy trailed off, and Harrington tossed another orange segment in his open mouth. “Mmf. You’re too good to be true, Harrington. You’ll get bored, and...you’re going to wall me up somewhere, aren’t you? The _ haunted  _ room. I’ll be the subject of ghost stories. Screaming Billy.”

Harrington snorted, grimacing. “I absolutely am. Chain you to the bed.” Billy burst into snickers, falling to his side on the bed, and Harrington grinned down at the tray, and reached over to run his thumb over Billy’s cheek. “I can...I’ll keep you safe. I—I wouldn’t really wall you up—”

“I know you wouldn’t put me in the dungeon of your _ castle,  _ Harrington,” Billy told him, patting around for the grape again, and flicking it at Harrington’s face. 

It hit his knee, and he grabbed it, and reached out to drop it on Billy’s ear. “It’s not a _ castle," _ Harrington muttered. "And if, ah, if your mother was from around here, we can ask around. Someone will know.”

They finished off the tray between them, while Billy was lost in thought, until he noticed Harrington was shivering, his hair still dripping down his shoulders. When the last bite of cheese had been downed, Billy got up and moved the tray aside, then grabbed both Harrington’s hands, and drew him over to the rug in front of the fire. 

“Now for the feast I _ want,”  _ Billy whispered, pushing Harrington down onto the rug. Harrington laughed, trying to pull him down, but Billy grabbed both of his hands. The fire lit them both orangey, and Billy chased a droplet of water down Harrington’s chest with his tongue, and kissed his belly. Harrington cackled, and squirmed, curling away, and Billy pinned him, ignoring the sting where he'd skinned his forearm and knees, sliding down the granite gravestones.

“Mercy!” Harrington yelled, and Billy grinned, kissing lower on his trembling sides. Harrington batted weakly at his face, writhing and kicking, and Billy gave the man’s side one last rub with his whole face—Harrington yelped, flailing a foot—and then took mercy as asked, and slid his lips over Harrington’s prick. The fluffy rug stuck to his forearm and elbows, so he slid his hands along Harrington’s hips, feeling him relax.

Harrington was still laughing, hands over his face. “Now...now you know I’m ticklish, I’ll have no peace.” 

Billy lifted his head from the man’s cock. “Truly. I’ll tickle you all hours of the day and night, as you fear.”

Harrington propped himself up on his elbow, reaching down to run his fingers through Billy’s hair. “You think that’s what I fear?”

Billy avoided answering by sliding his mouth back over the hot, wet skin of Harrington’s cock, and humming inquisitively. Harrington bucked up into his mouth, and apologized profusely, stroking his hair. Billy yanked his elbow off the rug again, wincing, to steady Harrington, and Harrington’s fingers in his hair tightened. 

“Hargrove, stop.”

Billy stilled, unresisting as Harrington pushed his head up and off Harrington’s cock. 

“You’re bleeding,” Harrington whispered, running his fingers down his own side, and rubbing them together to show blood where Billy’s scabs had soaked away in the bath, and he’d crawled around adhering to the rug.

“My apologies,” he whispered back. “I scraped them when I fell—”

“Get off of me,” Harrington pushed him away, stood up, and wandered around the bed, and Billy sat back, wondering darkly whether he was really less interesting than the hearthrug. “Come over here, idiot,” Harrington called over. Billy used the footboard of the enormous carved bed to pull himself up, his muscles shaking after the lack of sleep, and length of the day. Harrington pushed him to sit on the featherbed, and began unwrapping bandages, and Billy laughed. “Stop laughing,” Harrington muttered, brushing a kiss across Billy’s mouth, “—this is difficult enough without you raising my flagpole higher—”

“I beg your pardon,” Billy laughed, reaching out to thumb over Harrington’s prick. It jerked in his hand, dripping. 

Harrington smacked his hand away with a growl. “I mean it,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss Billy’s temple. “Let me finish. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I _ skinned my knees,”  _ Billy laughed, letting himself be pushed back onto the bed. “Like a  _ child.  _ I am sorry for your rug, but—”

“Sssh,” Harrington told him, dabbing at a pot of ointment. “Hush. Let me finish.”

Billy waited through Harrington bandaging both of his knees, and his forearm, and then his eyes started to flutter shut as Harrington rubbed warm hands over the raw skin of his back, and up into his scars. 

He woke curled on his side, covered in down comforter, with Harrington’s calloused hand stroking his chest, and Harrington’s hard cock nestled against his ass cheeks. Harrington was laughing, kissing his neck.

“Did you fall asleep?” he whispered, lifting his hand away—with a groan of protest from Billy—to return it covered with something slippery, ointment or oil, that he rubbed into the scarred, puckered skin across Billy’s shoulderblades. 

“...no,” Billy lied, knowing he should sit up, and properly seduce Harrington, and entirely too contented to try. 

“You did,” Harrington breathed against his ear, and Billy’s prick twitched, still semi-hard. He couldn’t bear to move, though—warm, sleepy, and carefully bandaged, with Harrington rubbing strong fingers against the tight muscles in his back. Billy waited for Harrington’s fingers to dip lower—he didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, but surely Harrington had to be getting impatient. When Harrington reached away _ again  _ for slippery stuff, and  _ again  _ didn’t let his hand stray low enough to so much as fist himself, Billy leaned back into him, blinking until Harrington’s smiling brown eyes came into focus. 

“I’m yours,” he mumbled, squirming so he pressed back against Harrington’s lap. “Fuck me.”

Harrington stilled, taking a shaky breath that turned into a laugh, and said, “You’re three-quarters asleep, are you—”

Billy hummed, letting his eyes close, and mumbled, “Can you imagine...better way to wake up?” 

After a period of stillness, Harrington leaned back again, waving his arm away, before leaning close to Billy again and sliding a hand down his back and down between his upper thighs. “...do you want me inside you?” he whispered, kissing Billy’s neck, “—or should I just slide against you, here?”

Billy shuddered, his prick more awake than any other part of him. “Mmnn,” he said, into the pillow. 

Harrington laughed, kissed behind Billy’s ear, and ran his hand down between Billy’s thighs. 

Billy rocked back against him, crossing his ankles to tighten the space between his legs, and threw his arm back to pull Harrington against him when the man hesitated _ again.  _ “Not somebody have to be gentle with,” he muttered nonsensically, and Harrington stopped entirely, but Billy flapped his hand around getting Harrington’s prick properly between his slick thighs, and bucked his hips. 

Harrington grunted in his ear, squeezing his side hard enough to leave bruises. “Hargrove—” he whispered, and Billy shut his eyes tighter, the easy comfort starting to melt away as he realized he was handling things all wrong, and Harrington was pulling away. 

“Don’t stop,” he pleaded into the pillow, and Harrington sighed into his hair. Billy propped himself up on his elbow, frowning back over his shoulder. “D’you want my mouth? Want me in your lap again? Tell me plain, Harrington, or I’ll keep putting my feet wrong—”

“No,” Harrington slumped back against the pillows, tugging the hand free that had been under Billy’s head, and covering his face. 

Billy swallowed what felt like a weight. “...do you want me to leave?”

“...no,” Harrington groaned. “Damn it. What do _ you  _ want?”

“Anything,” Billy answered honestly, laughing. “Give me anything, I’m content. Tell me what you—”

He cut off, muffled as Harrington rolled to throw a leg over him, pinning him into the pillows and licking into his mouth. Billy winced at the weight on his skinned elbow, but hummed into the kiss, and Harrington pushed himself up to shove Billy back onto his uninjured side. “What if I fist your cock,” he murmured against Billy’s lips, and Billy jerked against him, then laughed.

“Please,” he whispered back, and Harrington kissed him again, slowly, pressing him into the downy pillows. Billy squirmed, feeling his cock leak. He was panting when Harrington finally settled behind him, pulling him close, and kissing open-mouthed down the back of his neck. 

“Nothing hurts?” Harrington asked, biting gently at Billy’s ear. 

“Nothing,” Billy confirmed, arching his back as he tried not to just yank himself to completion and end the bewildering wait. The silken blankets were too warm, suddenly, and he kicked them back, and heard the rattle of the tray hitting the floor. Harrington’s laughter and kisses were hot and moist against his neck. 

When Harrington’s hand finally settled around his cock, Billy groaned, his fingers clenching on the man’s arm. 

Billy’s eyes fluttered shut again, this time at the sensations of Harrington’s prick between his thighs, stroking in and out, and Harrington’s calloused thumb rubbing across the tip of his cock. 

He lasted only a very short time.

He came to himself wrapped securely in Harrington’s arms, pleasantly warm, and a little sweaty. “I’ve found where I want to live,” he mumbled, and Harrington squeezed him. 

“Have you?” he whispered back, a little breathlessly, into Billy’s curls.

Billy was brash with contentment. “Here,” he murmured back. “You’ll have to stay in this bed forever.”

“I can come to grips with that,” Harrington returned, and then started to giggle, and Billy groaned. Harrington kissed his hair again, and squirmed away, clambering out of bed—with a muttered oath from Billy—to climb back in, and slide a warm wet cloth down Billy’s belly, and around his thighs. He tossed it on the floor and settled back in, pulling Billy against him. 

And again the matter of Billy’s father reared its head—Billy waited, hoping Harrington would _ suggest  _ he search. _ He seemed understanding,  _ Billy thought, holding his breath, and then letting it out slowly. He tried not to think about what they’d find, or how far Harrington’s patience would stretch. “...shall we go look? End my quest for the grail?”

Harrington went still against him, and Billy winced.  _ Why does he have to be Harrington,  _ he thought, annoyed. “It would be a relief, to have it over,” he tried, and felt Harrington’s face burrow in against his neck.

“No,” Harrington muttered into his neck. “Stay here. We can look in the morning.”

“...I’d love to, it’s only that—”

“I thought you wanted to stay here forever?” Harrington asked him, crisply, his fingernails clenching into Billy’s ribs. “Was that all you wanted? Now you have to hurry off and help your slaver father?” 

“No,” Billy whispered, grimacing, and shaking his head. He forced himself to relax back against Harrington again. “You’re right.”

“...sorry,” Harrington whispered back, squeezing Billy’s shoulders, and breathing unevenly against his neck. “Sorry, I—that was unacceptable, I’m—sorry. I should—I should trust you, right? You saved my life. You—charged in there. Distracted it—I thought I—I can trust you.”

Billy swallowed, his eyes fixed on the toy dragon ship Harrington had played with as a child, before his father’s betrayal—or his hero’s betrayal, or both, depending on how horrible a day little Harrington was having, probably. “I’ve thrown myself on your mercy,” Billy told him, biting back his _ I’ve waited for years, Harrington,  _ and _ this is important to me, though not to you,  _ and _ you said you’d allow it,  _ and most of all, after the way Harrington had acted in the bath, _ liar.  _ Billy clenched his jaw, swallowing, as Harrington didn’t loosen his grip. 

“...I am in no hurry to leave your bed,” he lied, finally, feeling tired after the trip up and down the mountain, but exhausted at the thought of Harrington’s avoidance. 

He wondered what Harrington would do, presented with his own father’s business endeavors—for the first time the image occured to him of Harrington burning the information Billy’s father required. Billy wondered how serious the rule had been, against setting fires. Billy imagined his father hiring—soldiers, probably—to raze settlements, and steal human beings. 

“I don’t intend to—to allow my father to—to commit—to _ kidnap _ anyone,” Billy whispered, and Harrington’s arms tightened.

“Can we talk in the morning,” he sighed, and Billy bit his lips together, working, he suspected, on the same equation as Harrington—his mother, and her weight, in the greater scheme of things, against all the harm Billy’s father could cause.

Billy waited until Harrington was asleep, snoring gently against his hair, and slid out of his arms, crawling down the bed to pull on his ragged trousers. His shirt was ripped as well, where he’d slid down the broken tombstones and landed in the rubble, so he stuffed it in his bag and shrugged on his jacket. The cantrip on the Harrington’s father’s door was already broken, and he slid inside, unhooking his pendant and swinging it around seeking _ things of importance.  _ That was better, immediately, than the vague  _ what my father wants  _ he had sought that afternoon, and he found three hidden drawers in the huge desk—one contained pound notes with  _ blood  _ on them, and he quickly tucked them back in the drawer. He was prying at a loose floorboard when the floor creaked behind him. 

“A thief in the night,” came Thomas Hagen’s voice, and Billy scrambled to his feet, cursing himself for forgetting it might not be Harrington who found him.

“I’ve Harrington’s leave to search,” Billy said, raising his open hands, and realizing how unlikely it sounded at Thomas’ widening grin. The clock read a quarter after three in the morning.

“He’s an idiot,” Thomas said, circling him to sit against the desk. “He’d believe anything you told him, after the spectacle you made on the mountain. Are you the missing heir to his fortune? No? Did you save his father’s life at sea?”

Billy shook his head, feeling an unpleasant sympathy with anyone protecting Harrington. “Nothing like that, I don’t want—”

“It doesn’t matter. Your little ginger firebrand will find her way out in no time—”

“What did you do to _ Max—”  _ Billy yelled, turning on his heel towards the door, and Thomas kicked the rolling desk chair out so Billy stumbled over it, falling sideways to crack his head against the wall. 

“Not much, yet,” Thomas crouched next to him, watching him try to shake his head clear. “Shut her in the larder. Listen. I have money as well. Not as much as the Harringtons,” he said, snorting, “—but I’ll give you a fine purse to disappear now, tonight, before he wakes—”

“He gave me leave to search,” Billy repeated, bracing himself on all fours, and shaking his head. He could see flashing lights against his eyelids, pulsing with the blood in his veins. 

“He gave you leave. And that would be why you’re prying up boards in his father’s room, hours before dawn,” Thomas crouched, hissing in his ear. “Harrington may have nothing between his ears, but I have. Get _ out.  _ Never speak to him again, or I’ll see you hung as the thief you are, and your snide little sister with you.”

Billy punched him in the stomach. 

Thomas swore, crashing sideways into the desk chair, and smacking his elbow on the side of the desk. The chair rolled into the side of the bed, and letters flew like a kicked pile of leaves. Billy grabbed Thomas’ foot to drag him out of the mess, and Thomas kicked back at him, trying to roll onto his arms and knees. He drug half the carpet and the chair with him into the front of the room, trying to scramble away from Billy’s booted feet, then got an arm around Billy’s knees and yanked him down. 

The floorboards thudded like a drum under them, a cloud of dust and hair flapping up from yanking the carpet around. Thomas clambered to pin him, got a fist in his hair to slam his head against the ground, and Billy swore, grabbing at the arm clenched in his hair and rolling his hips and legs until he could tip Thomas far enough to smack his back into the wooden edge of the bedframe. Somebody started pounding at the door, Max’s voice demanding Billy open up, and Thomas smashed his head into the floor. 

The door thudded and creaked as someone slammed against it, and Billy’s hands loosened as his head clonked into the floor a few more times. Thomas stood, stomped the heel of his boot into Billy’s ribs and shoulder, and Billy grabbed at him, trying to pull himself up. 

The onslaught against the door was loud in their soft noises of thuds and pained grunts—something was bashing against it, now. 

Thomas staggered as Billy grabbed his jacket and yanked downward, but he grabbed the desk chair for balance, and shoved Billy back down with his foot. He grabbed the oak, iron-wheeled desk chair, slamming the base into Billy’s head, and the sharp pain made him let go of Thomas’s clothes, trying to catch it. 

Thomas used both hands to swing it again, and the world whirled away in nausea and darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In these dead days of the Coronavirus, thank you so much for wandering in! Lemme know if you liked my swords and romance--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD**
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> (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
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> Like my writing? =D Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)


	7. Fights and Reconciliations, or The Evils of Rolling Desk Chairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has good reason to doubt Billy's intentions...but Steve can't believe everything was a lie.

Billy came to himself curled around his head, with Max yelling in his ear. His face was wet, and his mouth tasted like acid. He tried to lift his head, and the room spun around him, like the kaleidoscopic slides in Harrington’s magic lantern. 

“Billy,” Max was whispering, dabbing at his face. “Billy, speak to me, are you—will you live?”

He grunted, swallowing, and inhaled the smell of vomit. 

“You’re bleeding everywhere.” She sounded hoarse, and Billy tried to push her hands away, the motion making the world rock again. “And I think he took your jacket.”

“What?” Billy let himself roll onto his back, coughing. “He—he took it?”

“And your letters,” he heard her squeezing something out in the shaving bowl, before the floor creaked at her approach again. 

“From...from my wallet? He took the letters?” His stomach lurched again, imagining Harrington reading his father’s words. When he raised a hand and touched his face, his fingers came away bloody, and Max batted him aside, pressing a cold cloth to his temple. “...he’ll read them,” Billy whispered. “He’ll tell Harrington—”

“Tell him what?” She leaned in, eyes narrowed, before wiping around his mouth, and getting up to rinse the washcloth. “Is that why you fought?”

“Was that a fight?” Billy mumbled, eyes fixed straight forward on the wheels of the chair in an effort to stop the slow spiralling of the room. 

“He shoved me in the larder,” she snarled, sitting next to him with the bowl of water she’d filled at Harrington’s father’s shaving stand, and squeezing his hands. “I had to break the door.”

“You broke the door?” he laughed, wincing. “My white knight.”

“I pried it open with a coal shovel and ran up here. When he opened the door, I thought I was too late,” she whispered, sniffling. “You looked like a m-murdered corpse. Like _ roadkill,  _ Billy, blood  _ everywhere—” _

“Find someone else to write my eulogy,” he told her, shutting his eyes to see if that helped. It didn’t. 

“Don’t you _ dare  _ die,” she leaned her face against her fist, her shoulders shuddering. “I’ll—I’ll raise your  _ corpse,  _ Billy, I’ll  _ cut off its prick,  _ don’t you  _ dare  _ die on me—”

He flailed a hand out and patted hers. “I promise,” he told her, and she nodded, biting her lips against sobs. “I—I need to get up,” he groaned. “He’s probably talking to Harrington.”

“So?” She turned away to rinse the cloth, crouching closer, and he closed his eyes at the memory of someone else washing his face with hot water that night.

“So he’s telling him—lies,” he felt a tear escape, rolling into his ear, and took a shaky, calming breath, half laughing. “He thinks I was stealing. He thinks I endeared myself to Harrington for his money.”

“You did lie,” Max pointed out, in the unhelpful way she had.

“Yes, but I _ told  _ him,” Billy argued, pushing at her hands. “I told him about my mother, Max, he  _ knows  _ already. He gave me leave to search—”

“...so you crept out of his room at four in the morning?” she asked, eyebrows raised, and panic rose in him at the thought that he’d been unconscious nearly an hour. 

“Our father might have—”

“Your father,” she grumbled, and he squeezed her hand.

_ “My  _ father might have—Harrington knew more about his father’s business. It’s—it’s bad,” Billy swallowed. “He might want it to—to commit crimes. Harrington might—he might not let me—he might destroy it before I can find my mother—”

“You—you would give it to him?! To your father? Hand it over, if you know he might...” Max breathed, leaning in. “What kinds of crimes?!”

“It—it might—it could be _ useful  _ information, Max, maybe—maybe we could entrap him. Tell the police. Or what if it’s—it could be blackmail? We need to at least tell them they’re safe, now, if he has information on people.”

“...oh,” she swallowed, sitting back. “Can’t you explain that to him?”

“He was asleep,” Billy laughed, his eyes stinging. “I—I thought—he _ gave me leave _ to look—”

“I’ll talk to him,” she announced, setting her jaw. “I’ll _ make  _ him listen. I have a _ coal shovel.” _

“No, I—I need to talk to him,” Billy huffed a laugh. He rolled to try and lean on his elbow, gagged, and fell back. Max shoved him away from the pool of vomit, and he laughed, his vision blurring. “—in—I need a quarter-hour. First.”

“You need a _ doctor,”  _ she got up to rinse again, and brought the bowl over, dropping to kneel next to him. “What’d he hit you with, a tree?”

“The chair.” 

Max muttered something distinctly ungentle under her breath, and Billy relaxed into the floor, letting her finish cleaning his face, and smelling the dusty wax between the floorboards. 

Eventually, she finished, and he realized he’d have to open his eyes, and stand up, and get to Harrington’s room. Most likely an hour after Thomas. He swallowed, again, and slowly raised his arms to press his hands over his eyes. “Assuming he’ll listen.”

“Who, Harrington?” she snorted. “He’ll listen. He might not want to _ talk only,  _ with how you’ve had your lips on his at every opportunity—”

“I know, I know,” he laughed, feeling his eyes burning again. “I still have to—” Max caught his flailing hand, digging her boots into the floor to help haul him upright. “I’ll—maybe he’ll—he might listen, I have to try to—”

“I think you should lie down,” Max put an arm around his waist as he staggered, and he caught at her shoulder, covered his mouth, and took several deep breaths. “...steady,” she told him, and he nodded, to his immediate regret.

“...I’ll talk to Harrington, if he’ll see me,” he stepped away, leaning to grab the door frame. “I’ll be all right, I think, if I can keep my head on my neck.”

“You’ve managed so far,” she followed him to the door, arms out as though she could catch all six feet of him, and wouldn’t be found under him on the floor, pressed into the rug like squashed cake. 

He reached out, trying to keep his head steady, and brushed his fingers against her shoulder. “I’ll only be a short while.” 

She nodded. “I’ll see if I can get us a carriage.”

He shook his head, then closed his eyes, and groaned. “...the chill in this place will keep what’s left of my dinner inside.” He tried to smirk at her, and she stomped back in to the room, frowning down at the mess he’d left on the floor. 

Billy knocked on Harrington’s door, waited, and knocked again. He could hear Thomas’s voice, muted, through the heavy door. Finally, he heard an “Enter.” He turned the knob he'd struggled with earlier, carrying Harrington upstairs. 

Harrington was at his desk, his hair sticking out in every direction like overgrown vines, an unfolded letter in each hand. He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, and Thomas beamed, leaning across the back of Harrington’s chair. 

Billy tried not to throw up again.

“‘His son’s like a finely-bred hunting dog,’” Harrington read from the letter he had in hand, his voice flat. “‘Takes direction well, and leaves the thinking to his betters.’”

“I didn’t write that,” Billy blurted. “I don’t—”

Thomas cut him off, leaning over Harrington’s shoulder to read. “‘Lonely and eager' it says. 'He’ll give you anything you want for a pat on the head.’”

Harrington shut his eyes, and Billy stepped toward him, but Harrington looked up at the sound of Billy’s boots on his floor, and set his jaw. “Did-did you find what you wanted?”

“...no,” Billy swallowed, his eyes blurring with tears. 

“You may have another hour,” Harrington said, his voice hoarse, and Thomas threw his hands in the air, yelling incoherently. 

Billy’s heart pounded in his chest, and he stepped forward again towards Harrington, feeling himself sway. It wasn’t hard to see the echoes of his sad stares at Wheeler as his eyes glistened, and Billy felt a useless urge to walk over and grab Harrington’s shaking hands. Without Thomas’ interference, he suspected, he could have, and soothed Harrington into another smile.

It felt like another lie to approach Harrington like an enemy in battle, strategizing to strike at his vulnerable flank, but Billy considered it, as Thomas eyed him warily. He could cry louder, he thought, guilt twinging his stomach. He could tell Harrington what Max had said about his mother, about how she might be Fair, and locked away. Billy took a shaky breath.

Harrington swallowed, then rubbed his eyes, and frowned over. “Sit down, Hargrove, before you fall. He did this?” Harrington jerked his head at Thomas, who snorted.

“Because we know _ he’s  _ believable.”

Billy swallowed back a laugh, wondering at what point it became lying, bending the truth to use as a weapon. It had been the perfect time to confess all to Harrington—after leaping to save him from the Nuckelavee, and carrying him home. He smiled to himself at how convenient it had been, his impulse to save Harrington—if he hadn’t, Billy knew he wouldn’t have tried leveraging the man’s gratitude against the knowledge of his errand. The scars across his back had also helped, surprisingly—Harrington’s palpable concern had both given Billy the misplaced confidence to tell the truth, and softened Harrington enough to listen, for a time. 

Harrington growled at both of them. “I don’t like being lied to,” he told Thomas, waving at Billy, “—but I don’t think you—you didn't have the—you had _ no right  _ to—” Billy lowered himself into a chair, his arms shaking, and Harrington made a soft noise in his throat and stood. He didn’t come closer, though—he leaned against the desk, squeezing the edge with white knuckles. “What in hell did you do to him,” Harrington hissed at Thomas. “He’s all over blood.”

“He was _ robbing you,”  _ Thomas hissed back. 

“I had leave to search,” Billy said doggedly, and Harrington groaned. Billy swallowed, and continued. “My father’s a horse’s ass,” he gritted out through the ache of disloyalty, because in this one instance, Max was correct about his father, and Harrington had deserved none of Billy’s father’s barbed insults. “He wrote those letters. He says things like that about everyone.” 

Thomas snarled. “You know just where to press, didn’t you. Exactly what to say to get what you want.” He stepped towards Billy, and Harrington yanked him back, as Thomas jerked a hand at Billy, shouting in Harrington’s face. “You _ are _ an idiot, the man's _ right— _ he’s here hoping for sympathy, after I beat him. For _ using  _ you—” Harrington winced, looking away, and Thomas laughed, leaning in. “—I brought you the  _ evidence,  _ and you aren’t even gonna thank me? Say ‘thank you, Tommy, I should never have doubted—you’ve been  _ doubting Thomas—’” _

Billy swallowed bile as his head pounded. He wanted, almost irresistably, to tell Harrington more stories about his father, preying on the man’s soft heart for more time. He swallowed down the urge, and instead said, “Harrington. You said I didn’t deserve the whipping. You mustn’t think you deserve his venom.”

Harrington took a shaky breath, staring at Billy, and then swallowed, glancing at Thomas. “Here are the letters,” he said thickly, dropping back into his chair to rifle through a drawer. He grabbed a piece of twine and clumsily half-knotted it around the letters, most of his attention between Thomas, watching from behind his chair, and Billy, who finally leaned his head in his hands, trying to steady himself. “Go,” Harrington said. “Just—go. Search, if you—if you must, but—leave _ here—  _ ”

Billy could pretend to faint, he thought. Fall to the ground, and Harrington surely would let him stay, and then—once Thomas was gone—he could...begin again. He considered plans of attack as he leaned forward, his hand shaking as he accepted the letters. He could tell stories of his father’s beatings, he thought. Or fall to his knees, and ask that Harrington turn his attention to finding Billy’s mother, and free her from wherever she had been exiled, upon trying to drown her child. Billy stared at the packet of letters, unseeing, and wondering if he really wanted to use the truth like a wedge in a tree, and crack Harrington open with it.

“You didn’t even finish reading them—” Thomas’s hand snagged at the stack, and Harrington grabbed his arm, tight enough that Thomas grunted, and tried to jerk away. 

“You—" Harrington bared his teeth, shaking Thomas' hand away. "Leave this place,” Harrington growled.

Thomas yanked Harrington’s chair around to face him, grinning a little wider. “You want _ me  _ to leave? Me. I realized  _ he  _ wasn’t telling you everything—you haven't even read—” 

“I don’t want to _ read  _ them,” Harrington bit out. “I—I don’t want to  _ know  _ what he thinks I—”

“Fine, hide your head in the sand,” Thomas kicked the chair, stalking towards the door. “Don’t come crying to me when he steals all your money, and laughs in your face. You can start your sob stories again,” he flashed a grin at Billy. “He’ll probably fall for it.” Once he’d slammed the door, Harrington sank back into his chair, rubbing his face.

“My apologies for lying,” Billy tried, and Harrington snorted.

“Yeah. Sorry I found out, right? Sorry it won’t work anymore. What did you even _ want,  _ was anything…I can’t—” he cut off with a laugh. “I can’t even ask what the truth was, I can’t believe you.”

Billy tried to swallow, crumpling the letters as he pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, willing himself into composure. “I—I apologize. I...I never wanted you hurt.”

“No, you didn’t care about me at all,” Harrington laughed again, stood, and spun the heavy chair, lifting it over his head. Billy jerked back in his chair, but Harrington threw it across the room, where it crashed into the puppet show stage. The stage teetered and collapsed sideways with a wrenching creak, and Harrington turned back to Billy, taking a step towards him. 

Billy flinched, and Harrington stopped to lean against the desk, drawing ragged breaths. 

“I wish he—I wish he hadn't even been here,” he muttered, and laughed, sniffling. He paced in a circle, stretching, and wiping his eyes. “I’d—I'd have woken cold anyway, I'd have wondered where you were. I'd have found my father’s room overturned, but I wouldn’t have had to hear all—that,” he waved at the letters Billy was clutching. “I wouldn't be feeling _ guilty,  _ why do I have to—what did—" his foot hit the tray they’d knocked over the night before, and he grabbed it, and sent it crashing after the chair, then spun and growled at Billy again. “Maybe—maybe it’s _ better _ knowing it wasn’t anything I did. That had you gone in the morning. You were never going to stay, you were never going to—I'm such an _ idiot, _ you were right—" He dropped against the side of the bed, sliding to sit on the floor. 

“Harrington,” Billy whispered.

"How—how was it, courting a _ hunting dog?" _ Steve muttered, snorting. "Was it easy enough to make me wag my tail? You had me in two nights. I was—I was going to _ —Lord,  _ I’m such an _ idiot.  _ Buying you _ oranges. _ ”

As ever, Billy’s body’s response to a verbal dressing-down was to shake. His eyes welled up, and he leaned his head back, trying to blink away tears. “None of what he said in those letters was true.”

“None of it?” Harrington laughed. “And you’d know, wouldn’t you? You—” he stopped, and took a shaky breath, rubbing his face. “Because you went through my wallet, didn’t you. You read the letters I wrote, you knew—you knew exactly what to say. You knew what I wanted to hear.”

Billy tried to think of something to say, and couldn't. Finally, he tried, “I...didn’t read the letters in your wallet.” The words felt like they scraped their way up his throat. 

“You saw the watch,” Harrington sighed. “So that’s another lie.”

“I didn’t read the letters,” Billy repeated. “I felt no need to see you wax poetic about Nancy Wheeler—” he cut off as something soft buffeted his face and fell, the blow making his head jerk and the room swim sickeningly, and he realized Harrington had grabbed and flung a pillow.

“Stop talking,” Harrington said hoarsely. “Stop _ lying  _ to me, you—you have what you _ wanted,  _ go—go _ away.” _

“You said I could have a different favor,” Billy tried, squeezing his eyes shut against the nausea.

“I didn’t say that,” Harrington growled. “I—”

“You said letting me follow you up the mountain was a poor favor. Believe me, instead.” 

“I do believe you,” Steve said, laughing. “I believe you want to help your mother. I believe I was...useful, to that end.”

“No, you’re—”

“And once you saw how easy it’d be, you decided you’d have me as well,” Steve said, crossing his arms. “I should have—I should have never—why aren’t you taking what you _ wanted?”  _ he hissed, pointing at the door. “Take it and leave. Save the person you _ value.” _

Billy tried to lever himself upright, but encountered his nemesis, for a second time that day, in the manifestation of a spinning desk chair. After the second time Billy tried to brace himself against it, and nearly fell, he jerked with surprise as Harrington's hands pushed him back down. 

He stood back, sighing. “Do you need a room? Should I call a doctor?”

“No,” Billy shook his head, voice thick, “—no, I’ll—I’ll go, you don’t—I’ll go.” 

Instead of taking his hand to help him up, Harrington rested his hands on the back of the chair and rolled it to the stairs. Max was waiting outside Harrington’s rooms, and helped Billy down the stairs to the front door. He took a look back up at Harrington as they rounded the landing, and saw him rub his eyes with his sleeve, and kick the spindly gilt loveseat they’d rested in when Billy carried him upstairs. He swore, bending to lean on the arm, and took a shaky breath, sinking to sit on it as Billy turned down the next flight of stairs.

The carriage deposited them outside the inn, and he kept one hand on the wall, and one on the banister until he reached his room, where he handed Max the letters, pushed her out of the room, and swayed over to lower himself by degrees onto his bed. Harrington’s unceremonious leavetaking had left a burning sensation from his gut clear up the back of his throat to his eyelids, and sobs catching at his lungs. He stuck his hand under the pillow for the bottle he had stashed there, and took a long drink, wiping his eyes. 

When Max came and kicked the door, his face was mostly under the pillow. “I’ve got food, if you’re alive,” she shouted, and he winced, but hauled himself upright to open the door. “You don’t look much better,” she said, surveying him.

“I may be worse,” Billy agreed, holding his head as he meandered back towards the bed, and patted it for the bottle. He took another few swigs. “I should—”

“You should put _ that  _ down,” Max yanked the bottle away, “—and try to eat.” 

Billy surveyed the tray of cold cuts, and bit his lips together, remembering Harrington shoving sliced beef between his lips. 

“If you can keep—” she shook the bottle, listening, “—half a bottle of wine down, you can manage—”

He laughed over her words, and she dropped next to him on the bed, their shoulders thumping together. 

“...he told some lie to Harrington?” 

Billy snorted, nodding. “It...it _ could _ have been the truth, if I didn’t—if I wouldn’t _ crawl through coals  _ for the young master Harrington. That—that he’s an imbecile, that he’s lonely, that I knew how to—how to  _ flatter  _ him, how to bend him to my—my nefarious will,” Billy explained finally, waving his hands and laughing. 

She leaned to squint into his face. “...he didn’t take it well.”

“Understatement.” Billy assessed the plate she’d handed him, and began cutting up a fried tomato. A tear dripped off his nose, and she groaned, getting up to rustle through his trunk and return with a plain handkerchief. 

He batted it away as she rubbed it around on his face, but eventually when she knelt next to him, to be tall enough to hug his head, he relaxed into it, and took slow breaths against her shoulder. 

He eventually pushed her away, blowing his nose, and flopped sideways to pull the pillow over his head again. She leaned to frown under it, and he reached out and pressed the tip of her nose.

“I’ll mend,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sorry you had to clean up my mess.”

“As usual. ‘Thank you, Max,’” she whispered back, narrowing her eyes, “‘—I’m eternally grateful for a sister like you, _ Max,  _ none was ever better.’”

“And so wise, too,” he agreed, and she grabbed his limp hand, and squeezed it. 

_ “Billy—”  _ she huffed.

He kicked his feet up to brush against her side. _ "Maxine.  _ I’ll mend.”

“Don’t fight Thomas until your ears stop ringing,” she advised, reaching behind her to slap his feet away, and brush the dried mud off her side. 

“You have my word. I won’t beat Thomas into blood pudding until I can stand properly.”

“I should duel him,” she said, squeezing his hand. “He’s not much. I could—”

Billy muffled his laugh against the eiderdown, then lifted his head to grin at her. “And steal my vengeance?”

“...fine.” She leaned in again to squint into his face. “You look awful.”

“Then let me sleep,” he told her, pushing her with his legs until she staggered away from the bed. 

“...I’ll check on you later,” she said, chewing her lip. “I’ll see if your brain oozed out your ear.”

“Any further,” he agreed, and she nodded, crossing her arms. 

She left the door cracked, until he asked her to close it—and then she opened it again and peered back in, thin-lipped, to scowl at him before letting it latch. He let himself collapse slowly into the pillow, trying not to think of Harrington’s startled blush, or the look on his face, still and shiny-eyed, as Thomas read the letters. Billy pulled his necklace out of his shirt, and ran his thumb over it. He pressed it to hear Harrington's voice— _ “...do you know the story of how she acquired her dragon, Gauvin?”— _ then stopped it the next instant, taking shaky breaths as he remembered leaning in close, and watching Harrington’s smile. The dark beams of the ceiling swam, and spun, a little, and he sniffled, and buried his face in the pillow.

When he awoke, his throat raw, his eyes swollen, and what felt like hoofbeats still pounding in his head, the room was dark. He braced himself and stood, swaying. His first stagger forward found the cool lathed wood of the chair, his brief motion awakening the hammering against the inside of his skull. He groaned, reaching out to feel around, and found the bottle of wine, chugging a few swallows and then pressing his fingertips between his brows. The pain retreated a little as the world spun harder, so he kept it in his right hand, following his left hand around the wall to the door. 

The door to Max’s room was locked. He knocked a couple times, feeling a cold breeze against his bare feet from under the door. 

“Max,” he called, pressing his ear to the wood, then eased himself down to listen underneath, his face pressed to the floor. It sounded like a dull roar in there, and he banged harder. “Max! Is that the fire?! _ Max!” _

He scrambled up, leaving the wine on the ground, and stumbled back to his room for his key. The door resisted his similar, but not identical wrought iron key, but he jiggled it in the lock with the expertise of experience, nudging the door up with his toes, and it clicked open as he grabbed the bottle off the floor before the door knocked it over. 

The rushing noise hit his already-shaken ears like a blow as he opened Max’s door to find her window wide open, curtain flapping in the wind, and the streetlamps glistening off a roiling mass of creeping, shining crabs where there should have been a river. 

“Max,” he tried one last time, looking around, from the lamplit empty bed, to the letter pages blown everywhere. He pressed the cool glass of the bottle against his aching head, and tipped back another long swallow of wine, ignoring the slow, creeping ache up his arm from the iron key. He stepped back into the hall, holding his head. Once in his room, he pulled on stockings and boots, stood, sat again, feeling the room whirl, and tried to calculate whether he’d be better equipped after more wine to search despite the pain. He decided he’d be too drunk, and then grabbed for the chair, patting around for his jacket and his sword.

There were no helpful footprints leading into the distance, and he stared at the crunched flowerbed under Max’s window for long enough that crabs were starting to scuttle up his boots. 

“May what I’ve lost now be found,” he whispered, his hand shaking as he removed his necklace. The chain nearly slid through his hand, and he took a deep breath. “May what I’ve lost now be found, as the magic circles ‘round/Whether hidden far or near, point me to a path that’s clear—” 

“Come away, child,” whispered the dark corner between the inn wall and the barn, and he backed away, hunching his shoulders as the pendulum he’d made of his necklace swung in a wide circle towards Wheeler’s. _ She may take pity,  _ he hoped, _ for Max's sake. _

“Let me help you, child,” whispered the voice, joined in unison by another. “Come to the water. Many answers are to be found.” 

He shuddered. The pendulum didn’t so much as sway in its circle, spinning out towards Harringtons as much as the road by Wheeler’s, on the way to the docks. _ Hardly likely Max would go to Harringtons',  _ he thought, then remembered her sword was gone, and her fury, and he spun in place like a weathercock. His necklace thumped into his arm, and he started chanting to his makeshift pendulum again, trying to focus through the pain in his head.  _ Then  _ he remembered how long the road was up to Harrington House, and imagined knocking on the door and having to ask a favor of Harrington. He rubbed his face, and turned back toward Wheeler’s. 

When he stepped through the door in the hedge, it was...different, from the night of the party. The formerly-turretted roofline was thatched, and low enough to touch. The leaded glass windows were tiny shutters, and the marble stairs, creaky planks. He opened his mouth, closed it, and groaned, stepping forward to rap his knuckles on the small, crookedly-set wooden door, instead of the glistening gilt archway that would have admitted Harrington’s entire troop of friends, horsed. After his knocks escalated to bangs, he stepped around to the window, and slid his sword in to lift the bar on the shutters. A white hand shoved them open, and he jumped back to avoid another blow to the head, when the voice of the antlered lady who had referee’d their duel said “What do you, _ boy?” _

Billy was caught on the memory for a long second, staring into the dark void of the window—Harrington watching him win the match, and pulling him close on the balcony, and the flavor of the punch in his mouth—and he forced a smile, cocking his head.

“I seek my sister,” he told her, hurriedly resheathing his blade. “She made—friends here, and I don’t know where to look.”

“...it is an ill night to be alone, for one so young,” she said, softly, and he swallowed, nodding. Her voice was strangely thin and distant, compared to the night they had met. “...I will aid you. Seek ye along the river, toward the docks, for she tries to help where she cannot.”

“The _ docks _ —” he cut himself off, bowing, and swallowed back his shriek about the Nuckelavee. “Your generosity humbles me,” he tried, then, “—my sister and I appreciate your kindness.” The shutters smacked back closed, without her reaching out of the building, and he backed away, then ran back out to the road, and tried to brush the curls out of his face with shaking fingers. 

He walked on for a time, difficult to gauge in the odd silvery darkness. He listened for Max, and heard only invitations under bushes, and into the water, in familiar voices. It was probably not as long as it seemed, he thought, as the whispers gathered behind him and around him, and he walked faster, and faster, until he saw shapes ahead in the light of a streetlamp, and stumbled to a halt. They were all _ short,  _ except one, and his voice cracked as he called out. “Max?!”

“Billy,” she swung around, but didn’t come over, and he realized the face staring back at him, the tall shape he’d ignored, was Steve Harrington. 

“Back to the inn.” Billy said, glancing at Max, but baring his teeth in a too-wide grin toward Harrington.

“I—I’m needed here, Billy,” she told him. “What are you doing _ out of bed,  _ go back to the inn—”

“Yeah, get out of here,” yelled the curly-haired one, stepping, for some reason, in front of Harrington, who groaned.

“It’s dangerous out here,” Billy hissed, the world up-ending itself a bit as the volume of their voices hit his ears. He staggered. “Max, come back to the _ inn.”  _

“I’m not coming, Billy,” she said, backing away, and he stepped towards her, but the kid who’d taught them a dance—Sinclair, he thought—jumped between them, punching at Billy’s face. 

He stumbled back, registering how they stood—Max and Harrington furthest back, and the other kids _ between  _ them, like Harrington had _ told  _ them he was a rabid dog. 

“Don’t follow me, Billy, I need to—” Max started, but one of the boys flailed at Billy’s face again, and he caught the kid’s fist, yanking him off to the side, and grabbed for Max—and Harrington grabbed _ Billy,  _ shoving his back against the lamp post hard enough his ears started ringing again. 

“Go back to the inn,” Harrington said, his voice echoing weirdly from either the impact, or the wine.

Billy stared into Harrington’s red-rimmed eyes, their breaths mingling, and then grabbed his collar, yanking him into a rough kiss. He still smelled like the soap from their bath, trying to say something into Billy’s mouth. Harrington shuddered against him, leaning into it just long enough for Billy to get his hands in smooth brown locks, cool against his fingers, and then Harrington staggered back, pressing lingering fingers against Billy’s chest.

“Don’t _ touch  _ me,” Harrington growled, his eyes tearing up as he lifted his club, pointing it at Billy like a fencing foil. “Is-is that even you, Hargrove? Might be some other liar.” He smiled, and one of the kids grabbed his arm as the club bumped under Billy’s chin, and he jerked his head up with a sharp breath. “Maybe you’re a water-horse. Or—or my father told me about woodwives, once—they’re beautiful, perfect from the front, but everything behind the face _ is empty,  _ and  _ hollowed out,  _ and  _ rotten.  _ Sounds just like—”

“Billy, don’t!” Max yelled, as Billy smacked the club aside and stalked up to him. Billy paused, rolling his shoulders. 

“I didn’t want to believe Tommy was right about your _ lies.  _ About _ everything,”  _ Harrington hissed. He sounded hoarse. “You _ used  _ me—”

The children didn’t look surprised, their eyes narrowing, and Billy looked to Max, who bit her lips together. “Come on,” she whispered. “We need to hurry—”

Billy laughed, ducking his head, and interlocked his fingers, stretching to occupy his hands and remind himself _ he  _ was the guilty party, the snake in the grass. _ The truth stings,  _ he thought, reminding himself it wasn’t  _ Harrington’s  _ face he actually wanted to hit, or even Thomas’, for triggering the landslide of logic Billy’d been trying to hide. At least there was nothing to think about, now, with Harrington in full possession of the facts, and hating him for it. Billy’s stomach roiled. “Max. We’re going.”

“Billy,” she said woodenly, “—go back to the inn. I’m going to the docks.” 

“You’re not,” Billy told her, after a cold shiver at the memory of the antlered woman’s words. “It’s not safe to be alone—”

“She’s _ not  _ alone,” one of the boys yelled, and Billy shoved him aside, grabbing Max’s wrist too hard, so she swore, and he let go as Harrington punched his shoulder. 

“Let her go,” Harrington hissed. “You said you were _ afraid  _ of hurting her, was that a lie too?”

“Stay away from us,” one of the boys shouted, over Billy grabbing for Max again, and yelling, “Max, it’s _ dangerous,  _ come back to the _ inn—” _

Harrington grabbed Billy’s arm and shoved him back, and Billy went instinctively still in his grip, then jerked away, reaching for Max, who was just yelling _ Go back to the inn.  _ She stumbled backwards as he nearly caught her sleeve, and Billy realized she was _ crying.  _

“He should have let her drown you,” Harrington spat, his voice thick, “—just let you _ drown—”  _ and Billy swung around, sword out without him even realizing, and smacked Harrington so hard with the guard across the cheekbone he fell back across the paving stones.

“Steve!” one of the kids yelled, the curly one, but Harrington shoved himself back to his feet, wiping his eyes. He crouched again to grab his club, missing it in the dim, silvery light, and sniffling, and Billy swallowed, watching Harrington’s shaking hands pat at the ground. 

“...why are you crying?” Billy asked, forcing the words through his stiff throat. “Even you can’t have fallen for me in less than two days—”

Harrington roared, holding the club out at him again, but Billy didn’t freeze again. He batted it aside as Harrington roared with fury. “Of course not,” Harrington hissed. “Even I’m not—I’m not that much of an idiot—”

Billy took a shaky breath, and went into a guard stance, blinking back tears as Harrington’s club met his sword with the slow motion of a practise bout. 

“Stop it!” Max whispered. “Stop, there’s no reason to—just go back to the _ inn,  _ Billy—”

“Why can’t you connect, Harrington?” Billy called, too loudly, and it echoed through the night. “Are you too slow?” He flicked his sword in to smack Harrington’s wrist, and Harrington swore. Billy’s sword could change directions mid-swing, and Harrington’s club was slow and heavy, built for monsters with no thought in their heads, like the Nuckelavee. Or perhaps he was no fencer at all, Billy began to suspect, as he danced between Harrington’s wild swings. “Always too slow,” Billy told him, “—poor Harrington.”

After the first few flails fell short, Harrington growled, and swung at him in earnest. Billy dodged faster, unable to turn the club aside, his only choice to get out of its path. The first time Harrington’s club connected with Billy’s sword, Billy had to let it drop or break, so he let it clatter to the stones. He swiveled in around behind Harrington, grabbing the man’s wrists and kneeing his legs out from under him, and Harrington elbowed him in the gut as they fell to the paving. 

Harrington tossed the club to roll away, and Billy went still, watching it with wide eyes as Harrington’s elbow slammed into the pit of his stomach. While Billy gasped, Harrington twisted around and tried to pin him with the weight of his body, and Billy recovered enough to hit him again in the face, his back and head scraping against the cobblestones. 

“Go back to the inn!” Max yelled. “I don’t need you! I have _ friends  _ here! Ellie needs help—”

Billy struggled against Harrington’s weight, his eyes stinging. “We’ve been here _ two days,  _ how could you have— _ ”  _ Billy shouted—at Max, but more up at Harrington, as Billy squirmed and tried to shove him off. He punched the man’s shoulder, and Harrington yelped and faltered, holding an arm up as a shield. Billy took a shaky breath, staring up through the dim light of the streetlamp at the gleam of Harrington’s wet eyes, and the tears dripping off his chin. 

“...you couldn’t have feelings in _ two days,  _ no one could _ love  _ me already,” Billy said, disbelieving, “—not even you—”, and Harrington brought his arm down in a fist towards Billy’s face. Billy rolled them, slamming Harrington’s back against the cobblestones, and pinning him the way he had in _ bed.  _ He could feel Harrington’s frantic panting, and see his breath in the chill air. The kids were _ all  _ shrieking, now, as Harrington’s elbow connected with the side of Billy’s head, and he squeezed his eyes closed against the pain, trying to shield his spinning head. The noise of water was either in Billy’s head or his ears as he punched at Harrington again, and again, before Max had him around the head and arms, screaming “Stop! Stop, you—you have to stop—” 

Billy took a slow breath, shaking against her, and pushed her away enough to wipe his nose and eyes. Something cold brushed his jaw, and he looked up to see Sinclair, his dark eyes grim, holding Billy’s own sword pointed at him, and the curly one behind Max, holding Harrington’s club ready to swing.

Billy nodded, pushing Max away. “I—I’m. Come back to—back to the inn.” 

“I’m not _ going,”  _ she hissed, and he squinted past her through the dimness, realizing the noise of the water hadn’t been in his head—something had broken the bridge next to them, crashed through it, and the wreckage underneath was causing a whirlpool and rising water. 

Harrington wasn’t moving.

Billy registered it as he noticed the water lapping at his knees, and leaned in to brace himself with one arm, touching Harrington’s face with the other. He ignored the cold blade at his neck. “Harrington,” he whispered. “Harrington, wake up.”

“You _ killed  _ him,” the boy with the club said, and the end of it wavered. “You  _ killed  _ him, you—you— _ bastard—  _ ”

“No,” Billy whispered, patting at Harrington’s face again, and rubbing at the limp skin with his thumb. “No, no. No, _ Harrington—”  _ His hand started shaking, and Max reached in to yank an eyelid open, and pinch Harrington’s nose closed. He groaned, turning his head. Billy let himself fall forward and press their foreheads together, laughing, his eyes blurring with tears. 

“Get the hell _ off  _ him,” the curly one hissed, and Billy sat up again, wiping his eyes and clearing his throat. 

He laughed hoarsely. “You’ll need someone to carry him. You can’t leave him here.”

“Why would we let you _ touch  _ him?” hissed the curly-topped boy with the club, and Billy smiled, tightening his grip on Harrington’s limp hands. 

His own were shaking. “Because I can lift him,” he answered, “—and the river is still rising. I can—” he trailed off, glancing at Max. “I can take him back to the inn.”

“We have to get to the docks,” Max said, swallowing, and avoiding Billy’s gaze, and he wondered whether she was angry—over Harrington, or her friends of two days—or if he’d frightened her, beating Harrington within an inch of his life. “It’s important, Billy. I—I thought you were too hurt to—I think—I think you better come too,” she whispered. “Dustin’s water-horse—it told us we’d find answers, there.”

“And save everyone,” said the girl from the ball. The one who’d been held captive on the mountain, Billy remembered.

He clenched the fist he’d grabbed Max’s wrist with, and took a slow breath. “I’ll carry Harrington, and follow,” he said, standing, and didn’t ask where they were going, or look at Max again. “If you must be out in...this, I’ll come. I won’t hit him again.”

“Yeah. You won’t,” said Sinclair, still holding Billy’s sword steady. 

Max nodded as Billy crouched again, his head pounding from Thomas’s blow with the chair earlier, the jubilant relief at the feel of Harrington’s pulse against his fingers beating back the wooden feeling of knowing he’d probably left the imprint of his fingers on his little sister’s wrist. He scooped Harrington off the ground, letting his face tuck against Billy’s shoulder exactly as it had earlier, carrying him the other direction. 

Harrington snuffled at Billy’s neck, and Billy’s stomach twisted. Billy was staggering back to his feet when a _ massive eel  _ broke the surface of the water, its thrashing coils splashing half the contents of the river over them. The children shrieked—Max grabbed the boy with Billy’s sword, and drug him along the edge of the river—and Billy scrambled to get Harrington further along the embankment. As he ran, the gas lamps behind them started going out in crashes of glass like the darkness itself was pursuing them, and Harrington woke up in his arms and yelled, kicking and clutching at Billy’s shoulders. 

“Run!” He shouted, looking back over Billy’s shoulder, and Billy ran, barely keeping up with the sounds of the horde of children. Their boots clapped against the cobblestones, which was all that prevented Billy from running past them in the darkness when their feet went silent. 

“This way,” came Max’s voice, to the side, but he followed the flash of her bright hair ahead.

“I can walk,” Harrington said, stiff as a board against him, and Billy lowered his feet to the ground, steadying him when he staggered. The boys drew Max down a narrow path between hedges, and she reached back for Billy’s hand.

Billy supported Harrington with an arm around his waist as they passed onto another street, using the excuse of his weight to ignore the looks passing between Max, and Sinclair, and the others. 

The children dodged away from a narrow road between houses full of reflecting silvery eyes, and back out onto the stone walk along the river, just in time to be washed off their feet by a great splash. Billy huddled against a wagon, clutching Harrington close, and panting. 

“Wait,” Harrington whispered. 

“Hush,” Billy hissed back, squinting into the darkness. The ground shook with a grinding, crumbling crash, and he pushed Harrington behind him, his hands lingering. 

“Billy?” Max stage-whispered, and he shushed her too, then asked, “Is everyone safe?”

“We’re fine,” she told him, her voice tense. 

Billy turned to check on Harrington, touching his arm to find his shoulder. “Are—are you well?" he whispered. "No thanks to me.”

“Shhh!” Max hissed.

“What’s it matter to you,” Harrington growled, then caught at his sleeve. “Billy. Why—why’re you helping me?”

“I—I’m the reason you need help,” Billy whispered back, his stomach clenching nauseously. “Couldn’t—I could hardly let you wash into the damned river.”

“Why not,” Harrington pressed, his breaths uneven. His fingernails were starting to dig through Billy’s sleeve into his upper arm. “Billy.”

“I shouldn’t have hit you for speaking the truth,” Billy told him, catching glimpses of silver high above the river, like tree trunks. “Be quiet, we’re not—”

“Come, children,” called the lovely voice of the Lady, and he shivered. The water rose where he knelt, lapping at his knees, and she sang out again. “I know you are running. Do not be afraid.” 

“What,” Harrington yanked at him again, “—Billy—what truth, what do you—”

“I’ll see you through this, and then you needn’t see me again,” Billy kept his voice low, giving up on shutting Harrington’s mouth. "Where do you need to go?"

“Shut your _ mouths,”  _ Max growled over, amidst muttering from her new cronies—Billy would have to learn their names, he thought wildly, if they were important to Max. The silver of the crabs glinted in the light of a window overhead, and Billy pressed back harder, listening to the children hissing at each other.

“Why would—why are you _ here,  _ why would you—” Harrington asked again, then laughed, sharp and clear, and Billy grabbed him, clapping a hand over his mouth. Harrington bit it. “Of course,” he whispered, jerking his head away as Billy hissed in pain, “—you’re not here for me, you’re here for your sister—”

The world around them had gone silent at Harrington’s laugh, and they held their breaths as hooves trotted by, and the water surged again around a dark shape, only just visible against the stars.

After long minutes, Billy’s legs were numb as the water sluiced around them and then ebbed. He listened to the silence, straining his ears for the shuddery breaths of the children hidden along the wall, feet away, against the other end of the wagon. He was listening so hard he jerked at the feeling of Harrington leaning into him from behind, and burying his face in the side of Billy’s neck.

He forced himself to breathe. “H-Harrington, what—what are you—”

“Was any of it real,” he whispered. “Any—any of the things you said—”

“I didn’t lie,” Billy hissed back, as the sound of unshod hooves against the cobblestones retreated into the darkness. 

“That’s a lie right there,” Harrington sighed, and Billy manfully resisted the urge to kiss him, or elbow him in the ribs.

“I told you everything,” Billy gritted out, “—in the bath. And then Thomas Hagen told you I couldn’t possibly want you for yourself.”

Harrington took a shuddery breath, and laughed. “No one does,” he whispered, and Billy _ did  _ elbow him, for justice.

_ “He  _ does, for one,” Billy growled. “Don’t be an idiot. I—I could have jimmied a window, you know. If you weren’t _ you,  _ I—if you hadn’t been— _ you.” _

“What does that even mean,” Harrington laughed, his voice choked as the chittering noise of hundreds of silvery crab legs against the stone passed by them. “Child,” called voices that sounded like Max, and Wheeler, and a woman that Billy didn’t recognize, but made Harrington flinch against his back.

Billy’d had a little more time to think, and he took a deep breath. “I wanted you enough to risk everything,” he said, and Harrington swallowed hard.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered against Billy’s shoulder. 

“...thought you wanted me drowned,” Billy asked, forgetting to whisper, though his voice was so hoarse it didn’t carry. 

“I—I can't—I don't—just—I don’t understand,” Harrington burst into a sibilant whisper, like he’d been holding his breath. “I told you you could search, why sneak away, why—why _ lie _ to me? Why tell me you—why did—your search. I—I’d have given you leave to _ overturn  _ the place—I’d—I’d have harnessed horses to the hall pillars, if you wanted to look underneath, and you  _ crept away  _ after we—you left me, you—”

“You didn’t _ want  _ me to search,” Billy gritted out. “I came from _ Australia  _ to find my mother, and you told me to _ go to sleep—” _

Harrington took a shuddery breath against his neck. “I—I apologize. For that.”

Billy paused, his mouth still open.

“Of course you—you did tell me how important—” Harrington whispered, clenching his fingers in Billy’s sleeve. “I thought…”

“You told me of your father’s business,” Billy said, nearly drowned out by the sound of the Lady, ever calling for children, crashing through another bridge. “I wasn’t sure—” The crashing of stone made him go silent, listening. “I wasn’t sure if—” he said under his breath.

“Yours was as bad,” Harrington returned, hissing. “I thought you should know, before I—before I let myself—if it drove you away, and it _ did,  _ you didn’t even care to—pretend to care, with me, after—” 

Billy jostled him, reaching back to squeeze his hand. “Stop moaning, idiot, I stayed. I kissed you up one side and down the other.” 

Harrington’s voice cracked as he laughed, his head thudding against Billy’s back. “You _ crept away. _ I woke thinking I’d—I’d done something, I’d bored you with idiot stories of an idiot child—”

Billy narrowed his eyes, listening as the Lady’s voice crept up towards a grieving shriek, and then continued. “I was _ planted  _ there, Harrington. I’d—I’d have grown around you like a  _ vine,  _ I’d—I would hardly be put off by your  _ father’s  _ crimes—particularly when my own father was working with him, don’t make me stop up your mouth. I was…” he paused his tirade, taking a deep breath. “I—I must—know. I have to be certain.”

“What?” Harrington went still against him.

“About my mother," Billy sighed. "Was—was my mother always dangerous? I don’t know. Maybe she was—sometimes young mothers, after childbirth, they’re not well, for a time. She could be...better, perhaps I won’t—hurt those I...care for.”

“You’re afraid you’ll hurt Max?” Harrington whispered, sliding an arm around Billy’s waist. His breath was hot against the back of Billy's neck.

“Don’t be an _ idiot,”  _ came Max’s voice, full of contempt, and Billy hissed _ “Shut your mouth!”  _ back at her.

“Once she swings around that loop of the river, she’ll move further away,” one of the boys hissed.

“Shh,” said another.

“Why would you hurt Max?” Steve asked, his breath warm against Billy’s ear.

“Or you? I don’t _ know,”  _ Billy hissed back. “I need to  _ see  _ her, I need to talk to her, I will do _ anything _ to—to be certain I...I didn’t know what to do, after what you told me your father’s business  _ was.  _ He worked with mine, any business around the time of his death would have been  _ that  _ business, I thought you might snatch it away and throw it in the fire before I—before I could  _ think.”  _ He sighed heavily, pressing cool fingers against his pounding head.

Harrington shrank back, then whispered, “...and...and you would have handed it over to the man? Think about what that could _ cause—” _

“I didn’t know what I’d find!” Billy hissed back. “We could have sent false information, he doesn’t know your voice—we could have set up a trap, had him met by soldiers—”

“...I am in both of those plans,” Harrington said slowly. Un-shod hooves thundered by, following the Lady towards the docks, and Billy pressed them back again, the skin of his back warmed against Harrington’s chest.

“You—you’re—only if you didn’t react as—as I thought you would react, on finding our two fathers’ _ improbably evil  _ plans for the world at large,” Billy muttered, then cut off as Harrington slid an arm around him.

“You intended to tell me, still.” Harrington took a shaky breath. “Or you wouldn’t have planned for _ my  _ voice,  _ my  _ connections—”

“Stop muttering, you two, we need to go,” one of the boys hissed.

“I thought I would have _ time _ to invent a solid plan,” Billy gritted out, edging out of their cover, his legs all pins and needles. “Fob my father off with a letter about how desperate I was, what an imbecile you were—”

“I thought you said you didn’t write those letters,” Harrington jerked against him, and Billy snorted, opening his mouth, but Harrington cut him off. “...besides, he already knew of my...limitations.” He sounded bitter, but Billy could feel the laugh against his neck. “Barely needed to bend the truth, there—”

“She’s gone,” called Max. “...I’m drenched,” he heard her muttering.

“I didn’t write those, when would I have had time?” Billy let his voice raise slightly as the sounds of the great beast and the water-horses grew fainter, and he bent to punch the muscles of his calves, trying to pummel sensation back into them. “I’ve been with you since we met,” he growled. “I hadn’t written him, yet, I had no findings to tell of—and I _ will  _ stop your mouth, if you test me further—” Billy cut off as Harrington stiffened, remembering the teasing was out of place. 

Harrington laughed harshly, heaving Billy to his feet so quickly the faint light whirled by his eyes, and his stomach churned. “So,” Harrington laughed, “...you’ll kiss me, to stop me saying I’m a moron? That I fell for you instantly, like a well-trained dog?” he asked, but he clutched a fist in Billy’s shirt, holding him upright, and Billy tried to explain.

“I went looking because I was _ restless!”  _ he muttered, staggering. “It—it was exciting, to think I might _ know, _ I thought—I—I have leave to search, I can't sleep, why wait. Why wait until morning? I have—you gave me leave to search." He rambled to a halt, but Harrington hadn't interrupted, so he bit his lips. He tried again. "If—if Thomas hadn’t found me, I would have had time to consider—I could have crept back in while you snored, woken up alongside—” he cut off as Harrington yanked him around, grabbing his shirt to pull him into a kiss. Billy made a muffled squeak, and the first clash of teeth steadied into warm soft lips and tongues. 

Harrington took a shaky breath against his mouth, opening easily, and Billy ignored the silence and the children, and everything but Harrington’s warmth, taste, and the feel of him in Billy’s arms. 

“You weren’t going to leave me there,” Harrington whispered against his mouth, and Billy snorted a laugh, licking into his mouth again. “—Bi—stop for a moment—” Harrington slid his thumb between their mouths. Billy licked it. “Billy. Am—am I right? Did you...just—just tell me you meant to come back.”

“Let’s _ go,”  _ Max growled from the far end of the stone wall they’d sheltered against, and Harrington grabbed at Billy, panting, but Billy hauled him closer, whispering furiously in his ear.

“If I left your house that night, it would have been with you over my shoulder, because the place was on fire,” Billy told him. They were both unsteady, still, and Harrington stumbled against him. Billy put an arm around his waist, following Max's voice, but hissing in Harrington's ear. “Or a flood, or a lightning strike. None of those would _ wake  _ you, you know, so you really ought to have someone in your bed to raise the alarm—” Cold water dripped down his shoulder from his hair, and he walked faster. His head pounded, but his heart was racing, swirling and overflowing like the river. He pressed a kiss to Harrington's neck.

“I’m not that much of a log,” Harrington laughed against his shoulder. He was shaking, unsteady as they shuffled through inches of water.

“Believe you me, you’re an entire fallen oak, rotted to the forest floor,” Billy managed, feeling Harrington squeeze his fingers, and rambling on. “I all but dropped the keys on your face, and all you did was grab my hand and roll over—I leaned at that bizarre angle against your bed for nearly an hour, my arm stretched under your body—”

“...you could have reclaimed your hand,” As they walked under a streetlamp, and it burst, Harrington’s grin was heartstoppingly wide, and Billy blinked through the brightness. 

“I had faith you could pull me the rest of the way into bed, which you _ failed to do,”  _ Billy hissed back at him, and Harrington leaned in for another kiss.

“I beg your forgiveness,” Harrington said, “—for saying you should drown. Don’t—don’t ever drown, I’d—”

“I’ll do my best to avoid it,” Billy snickered, his stomach unspooling all at once like the explosive spring of a clock. He wanted to vomit again, and dance, twirling Harrington across a dance floor before stripping him down and licking the salt from his entire body.

“I’m sorry,” Harrington breathed, and Billy squeezed him tighter. 

“I shouldn’t have hit you," he whispered back, laughing with relief. "And I'm—I didn't mean—”

“Try words, next time,” Harrington suggested dryly. “I’m—I’m no wordsmith, but I can—I’m much better at hearing _ words  _ than—than reading your  _ mind—”  _ Billy nodded, opening his mouth, but Harrington cut him off. “And—and if you do—if you start to get...confused,” Harrington hissed, “—I’ll make sure you don’t hurt Max.”

“What,” Billy stumbled over a broken chunk of paving.

“I can afford a—an _ armada  _ of doctors. I’ll stay with you, if you like. I—I lo—you saved my life. I’ll look after you. I—I won’t let you hurt anyone. You—you have my word. I won’t let you hurt Max.”

Billy grabbed Harrington by the shoulders and kissed him again, feeling him laugh. They staggered on, snickering at nothing, with clasped hands. Every few minutes one of them would raise their twined fingers and kiss them, and the other would laugh harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, every chapter thus far has been about ten pages, and that's what I've got left in my doc--but there are a couple scenes I want to add, so maybe it'll get longer? Maybe a long chapter? Maybe two chapters? I am not sure! Got any questions about the world? Let me know, maybe I can work it in! XD
> 
> **In these dead days of the Coronavirus, thank you so much for wandering in! Lemme know if you liked my swords and romance--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD**
> 
> (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)


	8. Stories of the past:  Billy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy wakes, and realizes Max climbed out her window, running who-knows-where into the strange town of Hawkins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I could either do one long chapter that still needed a good edit and about three additional scenes...or I could just post to the next good stopping place, which I did! Not much to go now!

As they approached the docks, they could see flashes lighting the night sky up dark blue, and showing the legs of an enormous spider crab overarching the lake, silvery in the ferry lanterns and black against the sky. 

“The Lady of the Salt Lake,” said one of the boys, pointing, and Max stared. “She rides it, when she fights against the Nuckelavee.” 

“She _ fights  _ it,” Billy repeated, squinting. 

“It’s a danger to everyone,” the curly-haired boy said. “But it’s too strong for a hunting party. The Lady protects us.”

“Even she can’t kill it,” Harrington said softly. “When it escapes, she fights it to a standstill. It has killed many of her court, yet when it is loosed, she rides against it again.”

“Now she rides against us,” said the little one, Will Byers, the one who ought to sound angrier, Billy thought, after escaping with a body full of crustaceans. 

“She can try,” said Max, readying her sword. On the road ahead, the gleaming light shone off the flank of Wheeler’s white deer, tiny against the backdrop of waves, mountain, and lightning. She turned and frowned at them, and swung down from her steed.

"What are you doing here?" she shouted. "It's not safe, go to your homes—"

“They’ve been herding us here,” called back the curly one, with the club. “Because we’re children. Makes it easier to find her, at least.” 

"Why have you brought them here?!" Nan Wheeler yelled at Harrington, who snorted, and held a hand out for his club.

“I can stop her,” shouted the other girl—Ellie, Billy remembered. The spindly-legged crabs spilled over the stones at the river’s edge as they ran, and Ellie turned, set her feet, and whipped her hand through the air at them. The crabs fractured and scattered like a glittering pile of mica in wind, and Billy’s mouth fell open. He nearly tripped, then registered Harrington’s voice in his ear.

“You’re only a child! Go home!” Nan Wheeler shouted back, over the noise of the swirling water.

“She may be one of the Fair Folk herself,” Harrington whispered. “Ellie. That’s—that would be why she believes she is the child. The one the Lady seeks.” 

She’d escaped from the mountain somehow, and Billy abruptly wondered whether it hadn’t been the Nuckelavee, but her, causing the skeletons. He would have been tempted to ask, if the children—even Max—hadn’t been sending him glances like he was some storybook bogeyman: He Who Strikes From Behind—or at the very least unpredictable as the Nuckelavee. 

“You can’t go with her,” one of the assorted boys took Ellie’s hands. “She can’t make you leave—”

Billy, who was trying to place him, thought he might have been at the Ball. There were too damn many children, as far as he was concerned, though he was fairly certain this was neither the one who puked crabs, nor one of the two who had held weapons on him, so if he needed to save any, he decided, he’d be the first after Max. Ellie, apparently, could handle herself.

_ “I’m  _ the one she stole,” said the one Billy believed to be a fellow William, the crab-puker. “It’s  _ me  _ she wants, Ellie, you don’t have to—”

“What would she want with any of you,” Steve groaned, and Billy resisted the urge to nod.

“The Fair Folk like children,” said the one with Billy’s sword, the one who'd taught them to dance. _ Lucas, _ Billy thought, fairly sure. “She’s not hunting _ one  _ of us. She hasn’t given Callie back. She’s herding us  _ all  _ here—”

“We do _ not— _ we don’t all  _ steal people—”  _ said the hitherto Least Objectionable Child, and Billy raised his eyebrows.

"We?" he asked Harrington, under his breath, and Harrington whispered back, "That's Michael Wheeler, Nan's brother." Their voices were rising in volume to be heard over the sound of galloping hooves, and the hairs rose on the back of Billy’s neck.

“She’s never taken children before, either—” Curly was saying, and Ellie spun on her heel to yell “I will _ stop her.” _

Harrington set his jaw, swallowing. “They were coming anyway,” he told Billy, under his breath. “I—I couldn’t let the little goblins come alone.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Billy whispered back, with a snort, and yanked Harrington’s head closer to kiss his temple as they walked. “Hero Harrington. Max can be hard to—”

Harrington rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to be a hero—”

“You aren’t,” Billy pulled him close again, licking his ear, and Harrington shoved him, laughing. “That’s why I—want you. Wanted you. When I heard about you, at the Ball.”

“...I thought it was my looks,” Harrington said, snickering, and the children stopped to glare back at them, white-faced, tight-jawed, and teary-eyed.

“I thought you two hated each other!” wailed Curls, and Max swiveled to fix her fury on him.

“Billy’s _ staying,”  _ she hissed, stomping away, and Harrington yanked Billy close, nearly unbalancing him as they tried to keep pace over the cobblestones, and pressing warm kisses to his face.

“You intended to stay,” he whispered, laughing, as he nearly fell, and Billy yanked him upright. “Even—even—after. Before.”

Billy hadn’t, and yet, he couldn’t imagine himself having left without fixing like a post under Harrington’s chamber window, standing in wind and weather until Harrington let him speak. “I could hardly leave without you hogtied over my saddle,” he whispered back, and Harrington choked out a laugh, the sound echoing in the silvery night. 

At just that moment, there was another crash ahead, and a scream. Little Will-of-the-crabs shoved away, running to the docks, and the others followed, their footsteps smacking loud against the paving stones over the sounds of the rushing river. Billy stopped, squinting, when his footsteps changed to hollow thuds on boards, but Harrington drug him forward across the dock, to where they could see Ms. Byers, Will, and Ellie trying to keep the Sheriff from sinking in the roiling foam. In the darkness, the dock looked too short, and Billy realized it was broken, yards ahead, where they’d boarded the ferry, the jagged edges breaking away as Ms. Byers tilted forward with another scream, and Max charged in, throwing her sword to the side. 

Billy dodged back as Wheeler’s white stag clattered up, joined by Buckley and the others, and the children gathered around trying to help everyone out of the water as the ferry jutted up sideways and slammed into the docks hard enough that the horses staggered and reared. 

Thomas fired off a crossbow bolt at the dark shapes above, then fell as the great silvery tree trunk of the Lady’s steed-crab’s leg came down on the docks, amid shrieks from the children. Billy nearly fell to his knees, supporting Harrington. 

“I am here, children,” said the Lady, and the silvery light around them grew. It was bluish, and the small hairs on the backs of Billy’s arms and neck lifted. “This town that _ harms children  _ will be washed clean. Come.”

“No,” cried one of the boys, and Billy wished him luck. _ “You’re  _ the only one hurting anyone! Give Callie back! And my sister’s friend! Barbra Holland!”

Harrington hauled Billy closer, keeping them upright as he tried to get to Max. Buckley was standing next to Wheeler with another crossbow, and Carol alongside, the three of them placing themselves between the Lady and the panicked screaming on the disintegrating dock. Ellie helped the sheriff out of the water, and they crawled up the broken dock, scrambling away from the building waves, but the Lady’s crab bashed another section into the water, and the shaking knocked Billy and Harrington to their knees.

“These people have frightened _ children,”  _ the Lady told Wheeler, her hair lifting and crackling from her head as Harrington pulled Billy upright again, and they staggered forward, Billy’s head pounding so hard he could barely hear. 

“They have  _ stolen  _ from me. Ellie,” The Lady said, holding out a hand. “Dear one. I saved you. Why did you run?”

Ellie shook her head, sniffling.

“She wanted to be with her _ real mom,”  _ Wheeler-the-Youngest yelled back, holding Ellie’s hand, and Max stood next to them, her sword extended.

“Max!” Billy yelled, stumbling towards her, but she ignored him.

“I will wash this place down to its stones,” the Lady told them. “I have fought for this town. Every spring, for their sakes, I have fought the Nuckelavee back into its lair. I have—I have _ suffered  _ for them. We—” she held a long, pale hand out to Wheeler, who shook her head, raising her crossbow. “We of the mountain have protected their fragile lives, and in return they captured a child—” she waved a graceful hand at Ellie, “—and threatened her into breaking a hole between worlds. Much sadness will come of that,” she whispered, staring over them all with fixed eyes that shone with their own inner light. “Many of their lives will be further shortened," she whispered, somehow resoundingly. The wind whipped salt spray across their faces, and the Lady's eyes fixed on Ms. Byers, helping Sheriff Hopper. "They're only thieving animals, running in fear. But come, it needn’t all be grief. Come, children. You shall be harmed no more.”

“No!” Ellie yelled back, trying to stand as the roiling sea shook the dock.

“Wait,” Thomas shouted suddenly. “What did we steal?”

“Shut your mouth, Tommy,” Billy heard Carol hiss, but he ignored her. 

“No, really, we didn’t blow up her house, but I know what she _ means— _ but what exactly did we steal?”

“Me,” said Ellie, and Will nodded.

“Ellie _ left her,  _ and  _ then  _ came with us,” Thomas yelled, as Billy made use of the distraction to edge closer to Max. “What did we  _ steal?” _

“My own child,” the Lady hissed, swiping her hand around her, and the deep, chill water pulled back to leave a sphere of crackling air around the docks, leaving only glistening rocks, mud, and gasping fish. The darkness was split by surges of light from the Lady, dazzling their eyes and reflecting off the wall of ocean growing taller than they could see.

“What did those letters say, _ Steven Harrington,”  _ Thomas turned, holding his hands around his mouth to project his voice. It quavered in his mouth. “Madness in his blood. Witchcraft, from a woman who thought she was a _ fae princess.  _ He’s looking for his  _ mother.”  _ He pointed to the Lady. “She’s looking for a missing child!”

“Shut your mouth, Thomas,” Carol yelled, raising her sword, and he bared his teeth at her.

“It’s important,” Thomas yelled, “Young Master Harrington. He’s lied about everything, didn’t he? He’s brought her on this town. Give him _ back  _ to her.”

"Don't you _ dare!"  _ Max yelled, swivelling to point her sword at Thomas.

Billy felt as though he’d gone numb, his brain trying to take in the phosphorescent shape of a floating woman, and the towering cliff face of water, lifting over Hawkins.

“...Billy,” Steve whispered, clenching his hand on Billy’s shoulder.

“No,” Billy shook his head. “No. I can’t—Harrington—”

“What nonsense do you speak,” the Lady asked, with a snap in her voice they could _ taste.  _ “The people of this place will hurt  _ no more children—” _

“When I was a child, a wave took the lower town,” Harrington whispered, staring at Billy. He raised his voice over Max's demanding he shut his mouth. “When _ we  _ were children. Billy, how old are you? When did your father move to Australia?”

Billy shook his head, swallowing. “No! I—I’m two and twenty—I was six, but—”

“She’s here because of you,” Harrington said, and Billy flinched, shaking his head. Harrington ran his hands through his hair, taking deep breaths. “She—she called the ocean to her, and sixteen years ago, she _ took  _ the lower town. Because her  _ lover  _ took her  _ child... _ very, very far away. She couldn’t find him—Billy, you're her—”

"No," Billy whispered, shaking his head. He could hear Max yelling something, obscured by the rushing in his ears. “No. She—she tried to drown me, she—”

“She doesn’t understand humans,” Harrington said, staring into Billy's face. “She thought she was _ helping  _ Ellie. She’s the Mother of the Sea, Billy, she thought you would  _ breathe water.” _

“No,” Billy shook his head harder, feeling Harrington pull away as he stood. “No, Harrington, I can’t be—”

Thomas hailed the Lady. “This is him. Your _ child,”  _ he waved a hand at Billy, who felt like even the solid parts of the dock were falling away. “He came back looking for you.”

Max ran and grabbed Billy's arm, snarling, "No!" 

“...no,” said the Lady, stepping off the crab to land in the middle of the ferry with a loud crunch of wood. She jerked her foot back out of the broken decking, and walked across the water and collapsing wreckage to stare into Billy’s face. “You are not he,” she said, and his eyes burned, as though, he thought, he’d _ wanted,  _ just for a moment, to be claimed. He staggered forward at a grating blow to the back and sides of his neck, and she stepped back, a gleaming trail dangling from her hand in the uneven light, the chain of Billy’s necklace broken from his neck. “Yet you have my gift.”

“No,” Billy forced his voice through his raw throat. “No, the-that’s mine—”

“You are not my child, you are another thief,” she said, energy crackling around them, and Billy shook his head, unable to find his words. He could feel his heart pounding in his head.

"He's always had that!" Max shouted, shoving him behind her. In the dazzle, he felt hands on his arm, and heard Harrington’s urgent voice. 

“It’s the necklace you gave him!" Harrington yelled. "It’s been twenty years! Babies grow!” 

“...that is so.” The crackling light dimmed, and Billy could see again, a little. His throat ached, and his skull vibrated with her voice. “But it cannot have been so long. This _ stranger—” _

“I’m sorry,” Billy breathed, reaching for the necklace, as she clicked it. Harrington’s voice came out, and she threw it down, leaving a blackened hole through the dock. Max yelped, and tried to catch it.

“You traded my voice,” the Lady whispered, as Billy watched it glint as it fell, dropping to his knees next to the hole. “Was it so valueless, to you?” 

“...he received it with no voice,” Harrington said, yanking him upright. 

“Lies. I sang to my child,” said the Lady, stepping close so every hair on Billy’s body lifted, and his clothes fluttered as though there was wind. “I could not keep him safe, but I told him of his home, and of my love.”

“...he—he must have—wiped it clean,” Billy whispered, shaking. “My—my father. I carried it as a gift from—from you, but I had no—I thought you had...nothing to say.”

“I had the _ world  _ to say,” she whispered back, her voice reverberating through their skulls, and Billy's eyes blurred. Harrington’s fingers were bruisingly tight in his shoulder. 

“I didn’t steal it,” Billy told her, glancing past her at the enormous wave suspended over the town. His voice shook. “I’ve always worn it—”

"He never takes it off!" Max yelled, and staggered as the great silver crab crushed another piling holding up the dock. Hopper swore as the boards under them juddered and creaked. He and the Byers woman were dragging the children further ashore.

Buckley shouted, “—we _ didn’t steal him.  _ Can’t you—can we—take him  _ back,  _ if that—”

“Wait, we only have his word he didn’t know,” Thomas yelled over her. “He probably knew all along. Only the _ Lady  _ can control the Nuckelavee, Harrington! The  _ Sea Mither. His  _ mother. He was never in danger at all, he probably _ called _ it—”

"Hie off!" Max screamed at him.

“Shut up, Tommy,” Harrington said through gritted teeth.

“Why have you never sent word,” the Lady asked Billy, reaching out. Her brightness blinded him, but he took a step towards her voice. “I would speak with you, my own. Dear one. Where came you these bruises? Who has assailed you?”

Billy fought to talk, his muscles spasming at her closeness. His jaw wouldn’t open until she lowered her hand, and he wheezed deep breaths.

“I knew he was hiding something else,” Thomas laughed, and Harrington yanked Billy closer, but the Lady turned her gaze on Thomas.

_ “My child’s blood _ is upon you,” she whispered, floating higher, and raised her hand. The wave began to fall. 

Everyone ran to get off the dock, stumbling, screaming, and swinging up on horses—except Thomas, who stared out at the wave, then swung around on Billy, grabbing his shirt. Max yanked at both of them, her feet skidding on the wet, broken planking. 

“You’ve killed everyone in...everyone that...” Thomas hissed and cut off, shaking Billy so he almost bit his tongue. "—you—you've _ killed him." _

Billy swung at him, trying to free himself, but Carol, Robin, and Harrington started hauling them towards the town, and Max kicked Thomas in the knee.

“There’s no time!” Carol screamed, shoving at Thomas’s hands. 

Thomas reached past Robin to grab for Billy, teeth bared, and Robin staggered at the edge of the dock, when Carol shoved past Thomas to grab Robin around the waist, hauling her bodily back onto the planks. Thomas hung in the air for a moment over the edge, and then the water struck.

Billy heard a yell from Harrington, and shoved Max towards the shore as the air was smacked from his lungs. He tried to kick towards them. The roiling foam was white, bright turquoise, and a green so dark it was almost black, and he was knocked sideways by the coils of the eels and the tree-trunk-sized leg of the Lady’s spider crab steed. He couldn’t find anyone, any frantic flailing arms, or limp, drifting bodies. Harrington’s voice rang in his head, saying _ ‘she took the lower town, one day.’  _ And Thomas’,  _ ‘He's brought her on this town.’  _ The water numbed his skin, and the remaining air in his lungs went sour. It was as dark with his eyes closed as open, and he closed them against the sting, curling into a ball as his shoulder thudded and scraped against something else, knocking bubbles out of his mouth. He saw something glint, and reached out, feeling the shape of a shell, and the broken chain. 

He kept swimming, though he didn’t know which direction to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you so much for wandering in! Lemme know if you liked my swords and romance--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD**
> 
> (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)


	9. A Stranger To Himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something has happened. Probably. What, he doesn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, the chapter count has gone up ~again~. But it's mostly finished! I just wanted to give the last bit a final edit, so--have this bit, at least! Sorry I'm late, Ihni!

He sat at the Lady’s right hand, eating mangoes. His arms were slow with the weight of the water against them. He should have been surprised by the mangoes, he thought, staring across a whole roast boar, and a sugar stag whose antlers brushed the stalactites hanging from the roof of the cavern. Under the illusion, the rotten cloth of his sleeves wafted in the current, brushing his wrists.

“Are you pleased?” the Lady asked, and he nodded, wondering why he should be. He wondered how it was possible to be pleased or surprised by mangoes, when sitting at her table eating mangoes was all he could remember. 

The others at the table, small children seated amongst silent adults, chewed stolidly while staring ahead.

“You miss the food of your...childhood,” said the Lady, stroking his head, and he nodded, agreeing with her, as he would whatever she said. He wondered whether she had taken him first of all of them, when he was as small as the girl across the table, with her dark eyes and intense frown.

The girl was frowning over a bowl of shining sugar candy, but she ate only when the Lady reached over and pressed it to her mouth. Otherwise, her eyes darted. 

_ “You  _ children wouldn’t run, would you?” the Lady asked, running long nails through his hair. “Back to the men who hit you?” She pressed her thumb against his temple, and it  _ hurt,  _ and he went still. “You wouldn’t run away from me, darlings. They’ll bring your sister soon, my own,” she told the girl. “She’ll understand it’s dangerous out there. Little Ellie. Little William. They were nearly consumed by the death the mortals unleashed upon themselves, and they ran in fear from the Nuckelavee. I do not blame them. But soon, I will bring all your friends to you.” 

“Ellie doesn’t want to be here,” said the girl, and the Lady’s hand closed on the back of his chair. A chunk broke off, and floated away. 

“The mortals took them back from me,” said the Lady, her voice shaking, “—but they will not use children to attack our home again.” Her fingers clenched in his hair, and he winced. She shushed him. “They will not bring cannons, and break into our home again, and endanger children. They will not _...have  _ children, to mistreat.” She waved at them, making the water swirl. “Eat, children!”

When the Lady vanished in a whirl of foam from her place at the head of the table, he offered the girl a mango. She lifted a piece of candy, frowned intensely at the empty space between them, and tossed it over, but what apparently flew to his dish was a butterfly. He blinked, and it was candy again. 

“Storytime,” she whispered, patting her chest, and he tapped his own, frowning at her, to find a mussel shell. 

The chain was too short to get a good look at it, but he felt its smoothed edges against his fingers, and when she smacked her hands together again, he pressed it, and a voice echoed around the room. _ “Do you know the story,”  _ a voice asked,  _ “—of how she met Gauvin, her dragon?”  _ The girl spread her hands, and the water between them formed a dragon ship, tossed by a storm. 

Could he do that, he wondered? 

_ “First,”  _ came the voice, like a bedtime story. He wondered who had read him a bedtime story, and found himself mouthing along with the words. __

_ “First, the slavers took her friends, while she protected her family. Then, they took her family, while she hunted for her friends.”  _

He registered how silent those feasting around them had been, when they all looked over and reformed into near copies of the same face, the voice’s face. A familiar face. _ Harrington’s  _ face. He swallowed under their gaze, a strange tension pressing at his lungs as he remembered the name. When he dared to look closely, the facsimiles in the chairs around him were not perfect—the one across the table had the perfectly black eyes of a rat, and stared, unblinking. Another had a round mouth filled with needle-thin teeth. 

The children had not changed, and neither did the woman a few seats along, staring into her bowl of porridge. Amidst scuffling noises, more children appeared, hanging off his chair, and the girl’s, and whispering along to the words of Harrington’s story.

“Callie, make the Pirate Queen,” one of them told her, and she did, waving her hands. The one-eyed legend towered above them, topped by the infamous tri-corner hat. Her heavy pirate boots stalked along the table like a particularly vivid ghost passing through the dishes, and the woman eating porridge smiled.

“Are you all from the town?” Billy whispered. “From Hawkins?” 

Callie rolled her eyes, and one of the boys waved him quiet, pointing to his pendant, and pressing his finger to his lips. 

Billy listened to Harrington’s voice, his eyes stinging, then slid out of his chair—the eyes of the water-horses followed him unerringly, wearing Harrington’s face—and walked around to talk to the woman poking at her porridge. 

“The children. They were all stolen? From Hawkins?” he asked her, thinking of Max, and she looked up and sighed. “We have to help them,” he said, squeezing between the chairs to face her. “We have to—”

Up close, her eyes were swollen and red. She laughed, sniffling. “What’s my name, Billy?” she asked, and he opened his mouth, then closed it. She squeezed his hand. “You’ll forget at the end of the story,” she whispered, her eyes spilling over with tears.

When the Lady returned, one of the children reached over his shoulder and pressed the shell, to stop the voice. They scattered. The girl with the candy hid the mango he’d given her under the table, hunching her shoulders. 

The Lady sliced open a mango with the press of her fingernail, and pushed a piece in his mouth, guiding him back to his chair. It dripped down his chin. The pile on his plate grew no smaller, and he felt no fuller, however many he ate. Sometimes, the Lady smiled at him, and put another into his hand.

He woke, and didn’t open his eyes, listening to the musicians. He felt the water shift his curls. When he did open his eyes, his hands were blue with cold as always, and he wondered why he noticed, and why his lungs always felt tired, since he had never breathed anything but the water around him. Since there was nothing else he could breathe. 

The Lady, his mother, reached down from her throne to where he sat at her side, and pulled at his pendant. “Let me wipe it clean,” she asked, and he tugged it back. He tucked it away, covering it with one hand, and she cupped his cheek with her long white fingers. Numb with cold, he felt nothing.

“You slept long,” she teased. “Will you dance, for me?”

He nodded, standing, and the dancers gathered around him, silent, masked, and two-legged. They had always been two-legged, of course, he told himself, looking back at her.

“You love dancing,” she told him, and he did. 

It felt like he danced for days, since that was what she wanted of him. She watched, and urged the musicians faster.

His latest partner swung him behind a pillar, and slapped him across the face. The cold and the water deadened the blow, but he focused on her face, bringing up words from somewhere in the cellar of his mind. “You hit me,” he whispered. 

“Your name is Billy,” she told him, and hit him again, when he didn’t answer. “You need to listen. They’re coming to—”

“Billy,” he repeated the sounds.

“Listen to me. When they brought you here, you told me you have a sister,” she hissed at him, and he grabbed at her hands.

“Max! Where is Max?”

“Shh,” she pulled him back to the dancing, “—shhh, listen, you have to be ready—”

“Who are you,” he whispered, spinning her out, then pulling her back against his chest. She was dressed as beautifully as the rest, but under his fingers, her clothes were the same rotted strands and scraps as his own.

“I’m Barbra Holland,” she whispered back. “I was visiting a grave on the mound—my little sister. When the cannons started.”

“You’ve told me before,” he realized aloud, and she gripped his hands.

“You remember?!”

“No,” he admitted, “—but you sound—tired, more than—”

“Stop,” said his mother, and he did, his feet rooted, the very water in his lungs stilling.

_ “Billy—”  _ Barb whispered, tugging at his hands, and then staggered back. 

“Girl of Clear Sight,” his mother said, “—you are yet unhappy with my hospitality. Perhaps if you were a better dancer...I could—”

Billy wished he could move, or breathe, his body strangely alive with an unbeating heart, but the rest of him profoundly aware his blood should be pumping, and his lungs drawing in life. 

“Let him _ go,”  _ Barbra begged, waving a hand at him, and his mother frowned, then snapped, and he collapsed to the ground, heaving breaths and clutching at his chest and throat.

“Perhaps you would like to read.” His mother ran her fingers through Barbra’s hair, and pinched her cheek. “You are a quiet one, who does not enjoy dancing—”

“Let us _ go!”  _ Barbra smacked her hand away, then staggered backwards and fell, staring up. “I—I’m sorry—I—”

Billy’s mother lifted her hand again, and Billy slid one hand to tug at his pendant, and the other over to clasp Barbra’s, squeezing it. He took a steadying breath, meeting her eyes, and she swallowed, forcing a smile as the water swirled around them. 

His mother paused, hand raised, then clapped, and the water stilled, mostly. “Your whims have confused me! We have guests, children. Perhaps they will help you feel comfortable here.” She crouched to run a thumb down the side of Barbra’s face, and squeeze Billy’s hand where he held Barbra’s. “I am only concerned for your happiness, my dears.”

The tall silvery doors slammed open for the guests, and the Lady stroked a finger down his face, and said, “Peace.”

He was sitting against a wall. There was always music, but he felt no urge to dance—he pulled his feet closer and hugged his knees, taking a tired lungful of the water. It felt heavy in his lungs, and cold. The music went up a key, and sped up, and he felt he should want to dance, but kept his eyes closed. Something hit his face, and he let his head roll against the wall. It hit the other side, which was good, he thought, for symmetry. 

“Billy.” 

He opened his eyes to see one of the more attractive faces the water-horses sometimes took, and shook his head. “I’ll—I’ll come back to the dance soon.”

_ “Billy,”  _ it said again, clapping hands on his cheeks.

“That’s not how you applaud,” he muttered, and it did it again, until he grabbed its hands, nodding and mumbling, “I’ll come back. I’ll dance.”

“Billy,” said the water-horse, “—have you seen Barbra? Have you seen any other mortals?”

“...Barbra,” Billy repeated, thinking. “Are—are you...why do you want to talk to a mortal? I’m—I’m one. Mortal. Why are you—”

“I’m—you don’t know who I am,” the man whispered, tugging his hand free, and rubbing his thumb along Billy’s jaw.

“You’re lovely,” Billy told him, squeezing his hand. “You’re lovelier than the others. Do you...do you want to dance with me?”

“No, not—not right now,” the water-horse leaned their foreheads together, taking a shaky breath. He tucked Billy’s curls back, running his thumb along the top of Billy’s ear, and Billy leaned into the warmth of his hand. “We can’t dance now. Barbra Holland, Billy. Have you seen her? We’re here to help—”

“Oh,” Billy nodded, slowly. “You must be...mortal, too.” The water-horses must be copying him, Billy thought muzzily. “You’re here to...help her?”

“I’m trying,” the man said, and Billy staggered to his feet. 

“I can—I can help. Let me help.”

“We’re here to rescue everyone,” said the human. 

“Tell me what to do, I can—I’ll be of use, I promise—”

“—you have no idea who I am,” the man whispered, and Billy grabbed at his shirt, shaking his head. 

“There’s a girl. She—she can make butterflies. She’s a child.” He wheezed, startled, as the man yanked him close, and kissed his cheek.

“Stay here, you can barely—we aren’t leaving you,” he said, grabbing both Billy’s hands, “—we can’t—we have to get the children first, I’ll come back—”

“Go,” Billy told him, and once alone, slid back down the wall. He curled up on his side, wondering how he’d breathed his whole life without noticing how tiring it was. He pulled the pendant back out of his shirt, feeling himself start to go hazy again, and squeezed it, and the man’s voice came out, speaking of sea battles and dragons. Billy held it to his ear. 

He jostled aware to the mortal man again, shaking his shoulder, and reached out to touch the mouth making the same voice as his pendant, when the human slid one arm behind his back, and the other under his knees, and lifted him. His hair swirled in the water as he leaned his face against the smooth fabric of the human’s shoulder. It was fair, he supposed, that he would be taken, when his mother had taken so many. He wondered what the humans would do with him—this one, at least, kept talking to him, and asking questions, and sometimes held him tighter when he didn’t know how to respond. They were joined by a Fair person with antlers, who leaned close. 

“Why didn’t he react to the nail?” she asked, and the human squeezed him again.

“He—I—helped him—lie. He said—he said a lot of things,” the human sighed, and her lips thinned.

“This way.”

The human carried him for some time, back to where the music was louder, before trying to tip him up to walk again. He grabbed at the man’s shirt as his knees bent. His lungs ached, and he closed his eyes as the human pulled him close to support his weight. 

“He can’t even _ stand—” _

The music stopped with a discordant, miskeyed strum of the harp, and the Lady’s voice rang out. “Traitor.” 

The antlered woman cried out, falling to the floor.

“Billy,” the man whispered, shaking him. “You have to wake up, we have to run—Billy—”

Billy tried to straighten his legs, but the Lady stepped up and grabbed him by the shoulder, throwing him several feet through the water, and waving the doors open. 

“You have to let him breathe air—he’s dying—” the man shouted, as the waters swirled out the door in a great wave, and he and the antlered woman were washed away, the rush of air and light leaving Billy hacking up water on the floor. By the time the music started again—oddly tinny, without the water’s muffling effect—Billy had pulled himself into a ball, and his mother crouched beside him, touching his face.

When he woke, in a pile of leaves and branches, he had to roll aside to avoid hooves, and scramble over to stand against a tree. He was too numb with the cold to feel the rocks he clambered over, and the horse he reached out and caught spoke with a familiar voice. Of course, they were hunting, he thought, coughing, his lungs and throat oddly sore as he tried to pull himself up by the saddle, and his muscles shook. 

“Help us,” said the water-horse, to another, which stopped, and stood back on two hooves, lifting him with fingers and arms into the saddle. It had a perfect face, and he stared at it as its nose elongated back into a horse’s face, over a horse’s hooves. He took a deep breath, looking around, and recognized the place—he’d fled with Harrington through here. Harrington had bled over the whole side of the white stag, and along the ground. He’d smelled of flowers. 

Billy took a deep breath of chill air, remembering his goal, and his sister, and the weight of water in his lungs. His skin was bluish with cold, but he wasn’t shivering. He rubbed his face, taking another slow breath, and looked through his fingers—the creatures around him morphed into Harrington as he looked, and he wondered, muffling a sharp laugh, whether he was inhuman _ and  _ insane—whether he had ever seen what other people saw, or whether everyone knew him to be untrustworthy from his addressing questions to livestock, and thin air. 

The sixth time a water-horse reached for him with Harrington’s voice (only flatter), and Harrington’s face (only blanker), Billy kicked out from his mount, jerking the reins to the side, and urging her on. The next water-horse _ grabbed  _ him, though, sliding an arm around his knee, grabbing his elbow, and as Billy’s steed surged forward, it yanked him off. He crashed to the ground and lay stunned, listening to the shouting. 

His mother, unhelpfully, turned him into a bird. He was massive, with wide black wings, thrashing around, gasping for breath, and ignoring the clinging water-horse. He screamed, croaking caws over the water-horse calling his name, and it wrapped both arms around him, instead of shoving him off, laughing, and trotting on four hooves into the crowd. 

Billy beat his wings, rising off the ground with the water-horse clinging to his talons, and flew nearly above the towering oaks and half across the downs, until his terror gave way to exhaustion, and they plummeted. Billy rolled away from the water-horse with Harrington’s voice, and landed on four hooves, and a vague thought of making it back to the ferry, to the real Harrington. He staggered up—easier, on all fours, than on two—and felt the water-horse swing a leg over his back, calling his name. He tried to rear to dislodge the unwelcome passenger, found himself still too dizzy, and stumbled towards the path to the ferry.

His mother flicked the air again, in a press of air that blew back the grass, and Billy collapsed in a pile of scales, and wings. His breaths were flames, and he shut his mouth, imagining his reception in the town as a wyrm of legend, and Harrington in full armor, hacking his head off, and putting it up on a pole. Maybe it would return to his own face, once it’d been severed from his body. Maybe they’d leave it on the pole, anyway, he thought, trying to scramble away from the water-horse chasing him. He thrashed until he got tired, unable to push away, or demand he be let loose, until finally it held his face to its chest, and called his name, and he stilled, his heart pounding, unable to see an escape. He waited to see what it would do.

“Billy,” it said, over and over, “Billy, Billy Hargrove. You know me. Billy. Ssshh. Do—what do I do—what do I do, Billy, do I—do I kiss you?!” 

Billy drew in a deep breath—to his horror, a forked tongue flicked out—and closed his eyes at the smells of Harrington’s soap, and the brass polish of his magic lantern, and scone crumbs in the pocket at his belt. His first—absurd—thought was that Harrington had heard there was a monster, and come to hunt it, but the fingers on his scales were gentle. He laid his head against Harrington’s chest, his bulk knocking the man to the ground. Harrington flailed under him, yelling his name, and wrapping both arms and a leg around Billy’s horns and fins. 

Billy’s scales deadened the feeling of Harrington’s lips. 

Another burst of magic blew back the grass, and Harrington’s hair, and everyone had to draw breath again, as Billy tumbled to the ground, human-shaped. He started to back away, but Harrington yanked him close by a clinging shred of his rags, and held him against his shoulder. “I changed you back?!” he muttered, startled, and Billy shook with terror and laughter against his shoulder.

“I don’t think so,” he whispered back, coughing. “You’re not a prince, Harrington.”

“You’re a _ toad,  _ though,” Harrington hissed, and then the Lady strode close.

“You saw through the raven, and the unicorn, and the wyrm,” the Lady said, her voice rough. “I suppose you think he is _ yours,  _ now—he is my  _ child—” _

“He is his own,” Harrington returned, and Billy wondered whether he’d known the question would be asked. He tried not to laugh over having been a _ unicorn,  _ his eyes stinging. Harrington pulled away enough to unclip his short cloak, and tuck it around Billy’s shoulders, saying, “I would give him the choice—whether to live under the Lake, or in the town.”

“He is my _ child,”  _ the Lady repeated, softly, and Billy tried to pull away at the shake in her voice, but Harrington didn’t let go. 

“The town is on the Lake,” Harrington told her. “There is a ferry, it comes here. He would not be bound to anywhere. He would not be _ captive.” _

“If he were to vanish again,” she said, crouching to clench her fingers in Billy’s salt-crunchy hair, “I would take the upper town as well. I would—I would set the ocean free upon your—”

“His decision,” Harrington said quickly. “To go, or to stay.” 

After a short silence, Billy lifted his head to realize both of them were waiting. Harrington’s thumb slid through another rip in his clothes to rub his back reassuringly, and Billy swallowed, wondering whether the correct answer was to return with Harrington, and live longer, and prevent his mother scouring the countryside with grief. _ A sweet justification indeed,  _ he thought, trying to read the man’s expression.  _ He came through all of this to make the offer,  _ Billy figured, taking a shaky breath. “I—I am built for air, if—if I am welcome.”

“Welcome to my heart, and my home,” Harrington said, widening his eyes as though trying to communicate, and Billy bit his lips together, his breath coming faster.

“So it is true love, then,” the Lady said, her cold hand clasping, hard, against the back of Billy’s neck. 

Harrington pushed him away enough to stand, turned, and bowed. “I would make peace with the mother of my true love.”

“...very well,” she murmured, then clapped, and called out, “We will listen to your terms! Child,” she turned to Billy, “—come hither.”

He nodded, feeling the ground lurch under his feet as they reacquainted themselves with his human form. When they stopped, away from the grass he’d set smoldering, he saw her take the hand he was too numb to feel. The fae gathered ‘round, silent and still—he supposed when you lived centuries, a few minutes wait was a blink.

“Child,” she whispered, stroking his cheek. “My darling. Do you truly wish this?”

That, at least, he knew the answer to. “I do.”

“Is your thirst for their anguish slaked? Would you call off the hunt for their children, and our siege of their town?”

Billy’s throat closed as he looked across the Lake to the town of Hawkins, and over Harrington’s pale bruised face. “I—I seek no anguish,” he said, as soon as he could summon his voice. 

“Would you let him lay his heart before you, in recompense for the pain he has caused?” she asked, and Billy watched Harrington clench his jaw, watching his face. Billy tried to think of a way through that didn’t require Harrington pledge himself to the son of the fae holding Harrington’s entire town in the balance.

“If—if he wishes to offer his heart, I would take it,” he began, waving a hand when the Lady tried to continue. “—but I would gladly give him and his town peace, without his—”

“I cannot allow that,” she said crisply. “I will not be tricked again into trusting—”

“Your son is my true love,” Harrington announced, and Billy almost laughed, his eyes stinging. “I would protect him and cherish him, all the days of our lives.”

_ He doesn’t,  _ Billy thought wildly,  _ He wouldn’t, he won’t—  _ and nearly choked himself swallowing down the truths that Harrington’s town was besieged, that children were held from their families, and that Harrington would hold a monster in his arms rather than let the misery of his home continue. “I—I accept,” Billy whispered, then cleared his throat, and said it loudly enough for all to hear. “I wish no ill will to poison our true love. L-La—  _ Mother,”  _ he forced through his suddenly-closed throat. “Will you stop your hunt for the children, and withdraw from Hawkins?” 

He didn’t look over at Harrington, but felt it when the man stepped close.

“I will, an he promise to keep true,” she cupped a hand under the left side of Billy’s jaw, and Harrington’s right, and pushed them together for the briefest of cold kisses. One of the water-horses lifted him onto a shaggy horse Harrington had left tied near the path down the mountain to the ferry, and Harrington swung up behind. Billy’s hands burned at the warmth of the horse’s side, and Harrington’s arms, and he began to shiver so hard he could hardly speak.

“Hush,” Harrington whispered, tightening his grip. “We have time, tell me later.”

Billy let his eyes close, and the next time he opened them, Harrington was trying to hold him steady in the saddle as the man himself swung off the horse. 

“Billy!” came a scream—Max’ voice, and he tried to stop shivering, to greet her, but his legs collapsed as they met the ground. “Where are his _ clothes,”  _ she growled, grabbing his shoulders, and he tried not to laugh. 

Robin waved from behind his sister. “She fought free,” she called, and Harrington shrugged. 

“She would not be left behind again,” he told Billy, who nodded, wondering whether they’d wait while he rested for a short time on the rocks.

“He’s _ freezing,”  _ Max growled, tugging at the cloak.

“He turned into a—things. And a dragon,” Harrington told her apologetically, and Billy did cackle then, but it turned into hacking coughs. He was packed onto the ferry like a parcel in Harrington’s arms, as though Billy wasn’t mumbling complaints into his shoulder. “Shut up, you,” Harrington told him, kissing his face, and Billy felt himself warm. He shivered harder.

“Why is he _ naked,”  _ Max hissed. “He’ll catch his  _ death.” _

“I should have brought a blanket,” Harrington admitted, and Billy laughed some more, shaking harder. 

Buckley leaned in to frown at his face, holding an oar. “Huh,” she said. “So he’s alive. That’s...fine, right?”

Harrington sputtered, and a whoop of laughter from behind his shoulder told Billy Carol had come. Sure enough, the ferry creaked away from the bank, with him curled against Harrington, and Max fussing at his wet hair, and the bare knees and feet sticking out from under Harrington’s cloak. When the current threatened to draw them into the rocks, Carol ran to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Robin, and leaned up to kiss her once the danger had passed. Robin laughed, covering a grin, and Carol leaned in to kiss her again. They staggered with the motion of the pontoon, flushed and smiling.

“Look, Robin Redbreast,” Billy mumbled. “The bird has gotten her song.”

“Don’t talk, you’ll _ die,”  _ Max hissed, and he started laughing again, his breath catching and making him cough. 

Harrington was rubbing at his hands, Billy could see, though he didn’t feel it. Harrington kept talking to Max. “Let’s stop at the inn. Warm him up. Sooner.” 

Max nodded, wiping her eyes, and Billy tried to squeeze her shoulder, but his arms were too heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you so much for wandering in! Lemme know if you liked my swords and romance--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD**
> 
> (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)


	10. Tears, and husbands, and daisies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Billy is safely returned to Hawkins, he and Steve Harrington have a lot to talk about.
> 
> *REWRITTEN*
> 
> I didn't delete anything, just added clarification here or there, or expanded scenes. Merry Christmas, Ihni!

Billy woke again as Harrington carried him up the stairs at the inn, and banged his ankles into the doorjamb. “Sorry,” Harrington panted. 

“Better than his head,” Max said, and Billy, muzzily, wanted to complain, but Harrington carried him in front of the fire and dropped him in a tub of what felt like a volcanic river of molten iron, and Billy yelped, trying to escape.

“It only feels hot because you’re so cold,” Harrington _ lied,  _ continuing the torture.

“What happened to his _ clothes,  _ he’s in _ rags,”  _ Max whispered, and Billy wanted to open his eyes, and tell her she could speak in her usual yell, he wasn’t asleep, but his eyelids were too heavy. 

“Nothing would have kept him warm, in that water. But...time passes differently, there,” Harrington explained, his calloused fingers rinsing the mud and salt from Billy’s face and hair, and tugging away the sodden threads holding together what remained of his shirt. “He was...he was down there a long time.”

“Oh no,” Max breathed.

Billy could hear the sand swirling against the bottom of the copper laundry tub as Harrington scrubbed his feet. 

He woke again to the smell of Harrington’s shirt pressed to his face, and breathed in sweat, and dust, and the warm smells of tea and some sort of bread, and roast meat. His stomach growled, but he had his face miraculously buried in Harrington’s side, and refused to move.

His stomach gurgled again—long and low, like a distant shepherd blowing a horn for aid, while drowning. “Is that the Nuckelavee,” Max asked casually, and something blunt prodded his thigh, “—or my brother’s stomach?”

Something stroked Billy’s head, and then Harrington’s callused thumb stroked down the side of his neck. He felt his face and neck heat.

“Billy,” came Harrington’s voice, softly. “—there are oranges.”

_ I love you,  _ Billy thought, and swallowed it back, his eyes burning. He swallowed again, and lifted his head. “I thought you’d—” he stopped, startled by the grating noise standing in for his voice, and the feeling of air across his raw throat. He let his voice drop to a whisper. “...thought you’d want to feed me more meat.”

“You’re both revolting,” said Max. 

“How are you feeling?” Harrington asked, and Billy considered lying—aside from his throat and lungs, sore from breathing water, the pain in his head, and the weakness in his entire body, he felt perfectly well. He admitted as much, expecting to be unceremoniously shoved from Harrington’s side, but they both bent close again, brows furrowed.

“Do you need the doctor again?” Harrington asked, as Max yanked the heavy blankets up to Billy’s nose, then stood with her fists clenched and arms shaking.

“I’m just tired,” Billy told them, trying not to laugh as he bit back a smile. “I’m—I’m warm enough, Max.” That much was true—a heat unrelated to the blankets had been building in his face and chest since he recognized the smell of Harrington’s soap and skin, and realized he’d stayed for hours to be Billy’s hot water bottle.

“Have a slice of orange,” he said, pressing it against Billy’s mouth, and Billy opened his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and accepted another. Harrington’s brows were clenched together, his jaw set, and Billy watched him, listening to Max, and accepting an endless train of cool, tart orange segments.

“The doctor pulled nearly a bowlful of liquid out of your lungs,” Max was saying, her feet thudding against the wood of the window seat. “Even more than was inside Thomas. It looked like beer.” She kicked the seat harder. “I said we should put it all back in Thomas.”

“What about you?” Billy asked her, swallowing another piece of orange. “You weren’t swept under?”

“She dove to find you,” Harrington said, and Max sighed shakily. “We all did.”

Billy blinked up at Harrington, who shrugged, clenching his fists. “We couldn’t find you.”

“You dove in after me?” Billy asked, wondering whether his ears and brain were still full of water.

“The Lady pulled her wave back,” Max hucked a pillow at him. “She _ took  _ you, and she left, we couldn’t—Carol fished me out.” She took a hiccupy breath, and Billy grimaced, wondering whether to let her pretend she wasn’t crying. “It was so _ dark,  _ Billy. I couldn’t—I didn’t even know which way to swim, I—”

“The wave stirred up the mud,” Harrington said, sounding oddly hoarse himself. “We couldn’t see. Carol and Robin drug me out.”

“Don’t just feed him oranges,” Max interrupted as Harrington earnestly began peeling a third. “Give him something hearty. There’s soup.” She picked up a slice of bread and sat it down again, wiping her eyes, and sniffling. “B-Billy. Do you—do you want bread? There’s—there’s cheese, there’s—” she swallowed hard, and he called her closer.

“Max, come here.”

“What,” she huffed, staring at the nuts she’d been shelling, and blinking hard.

“Max.”

She stepped over and dropped next to the bed, throwing her arms around Billy’s neck and hiccuping sobs into his chest. “Y-you say I cried and—and I’ll kill you,” she told Harrington, who nodded, his mouth quirking. He frowned between the cheese Max had pointed to, and his half-peeled orange. Billy pulled an arm away from squeezing Max, and slid it around Harrington’s leg, the only part he could reach.

Harrington bent to hold them both, but Max growled, so he sat back up and stroked Billy’s side until she was done.

The next morning, Billy woke first, his brain processing birdsong, and the smell of flowers from his window. Harrington was still curled around him, snoring with his face wedged between Billy’s chest and the bed, and Max was asleep with her arm and head hanging off the window seat. Billy watched the colors change in the room, the rose-orange of dawn fading into a clear warm light as Max jerked awake and thudded to the floor, and Harrington slept on, nuzzling his face deeper until Billy bit his lips on a snicker, kissing the man’s head. 

“...he’s done nothing but look for you,” Max said. “He helped me. I’m so sorry, I—they—they held me back—” she stared into his eyes, taking a shaky breath, and he opened his mouth to say he didn’t _ blame  _ her, but she cut him off. “Billy, I tried to keep looking, Harrington and me—we dove again and again—I would have _ caught  _ you, I saw her—” she stopped and took a slow breath through her nose, sitting on the window seat. “I saw her take you.”

“...of course he’d help you,” Billy laughed, swallowing. “Help a child find her brother. Max,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “—you claim to fight all comers. You’re the swaggering hero, and the moment my back was turned, you nearly _ drowned?” _

“I was _ being  _ a hero,” she growled, and rubbed her eyes with her sleeves—still stained with the dirt and iron-tainted water where they’d waited by the ferry. “I need _ you.  _ This is why I asked for permission to come along— _ ” _

Billy cleared his throat, smiling, his eyes stinging in the familiar way of salt water.

“Harrington and Wheeler rode through the breach in the mountain,” Max said, crossing her arms. “They wouldn’t let me come.”

“I should hope not,” Billy felt himself shudder, squeezing Harrington closer. 

“You’re my _ brother,”  _ Max hissed. “But—but he said—” she jabbed Harrington in the shoulder, growling, “—he said if I allowed the Lady to _ take  _ me, if she held me, you’d do anything. So I—” she took another long breath, sniffling. “I _ stayed with the ferry,  _ and Carol, and Robin. And I _ waited.” _

Billy swallowed thickly. “I thought the town was _ gone.  _ I should have—I could have tried harder, to—to help myself.”

“You could barely breathe,” Max said crisply. “Her Ladyship let them out to play, Callie says, with guards, in the forest. In the _ air.  _ She kept you close, down—” her voice cracked. “Thomas—he said it’s so cold, nothing grows, at the bottom of the lake. The currents scrub everything clean, and then clean away. He said there are shipwrecks down there, perfect and whole, and the weight of the water c-crushes anyone who—”

“Max,” Billy interrupted, wishing more than ever that Thomas had been swept out to sea.

“You were _ drowning,”  _ Max hissed. “You were _ drowning,  _ and I—I couldn’t—it was so cold.” She stared at the floor between her scuffed boots, and huffed a sigh. “Your mother is _ not  _ good with children.”

“Let’s not ask her to babysit,” he told his sister, seriously, and they both started giggling, wiping their eyes. 

“Not—not like you. You were all the family I needed,” she said, her voice going strained. “You’re—you’re it, Billy, you’re all I—”

“Same for me,” he told her, and she threw a pillow at him, covering her mouth with her other hand as her eyes shone with tears. 

“Hrrrrnf,” Harrington mumbled, yawning, and tightening his arm around Billy’s waist. 

“Stop making me blubber like a _ baby,”  _ Max snarled, rubbing her face.

“Yes ma’am,” Billy whispered back, smiling down as Harrington wrapped a leg around him. Max threw two more pillows, and ran out of ammunition.

When Billy staggered out of bed—he had to explain, crisply, that he needed time uninterrupted to nurture his relationship with the chamberpot, before they would leave him alone—he was as helpless as a knee-high child. He stumbled over nothing all afternoon, he panted, coughing, from the effort of walking across the room, and he fell asleep nearly mid-word as Max read from the rude letter she was writing to her sword fighting instructor.

When he awoke, he informed her that the man could hardly have anticipated she’d fight Fair royalty, but dropped his plate four times, scrambling to hold it in shaking hands. He looked up to find them both watching as though his heart might stop if they blinked. “Harrington,” he laughed, “I give you my word I won’t die and leave you to explain my corpse to the Mother of the Sea.”

Harrington took Billy’s plate, steadying him with warm hands as he surrendered and sat down. “I would tell her it was her fault, and consequences be damned,” he replied. “Sit _ down.” _

“I am perfectly—”

“Let him feed you oranges,” Max growled. “Stay in your blankets, Billy.”

“...Max, I taught you to walk,” he told her. “You need to repay the favor.” To his horror, her eyes welled up again, and she shoved him back into the haystack-sized nest of cushions and blankets Harrington had been adding to since the night before. That done, she stomped out, and Billy stared after her.

Harrington plumped the pillows around him, leaning in to press a firm kiss on his mouth, and Billy leaned after him, hoping for more. Harrington pulled more blankets around them, and held him swaddled like a babe. 

“One day I’ll find you tying blankets to trees,” Billy whispered, leaning close enough to kiss Harrington’s stubbled cheek. He tried to tug the man around for a deeper kiss, but it was like pulling at an oak tree. “...nesting, like an osprey,” Billy laughed, and Harrington curled around him, smiling. 

“I’ll fill your nest with down,” he offered, kissing Billy’s hair. “Maybe a featherbed. And some kegs of wine.”

“What,” Billy snorted, letting his head loll back against Harrington’s shoulder, and receiving, as he’d hoped, a smiling kiss on the mouth. 

When the beaming innkeeper brought sausages, and fried tomatoes, and buttered scones, Harrington stood. “I need to see about some things,” he said, and Billy’s stomach sank, his throat tightening.

“Of course,” he rallied. “I—I should probably—”

“—help Max with your things,” put in Max, “—which she had to pack up and move suddenly, into her room.”

“Yes, exactly,” Billy nodded, and stabbed his fork into an entire sausage, taking a bite to occupy his mouth. 

Harrington stilled to watch, his mouth hanging open, and Billy nearly grabbed him and hauled him down into a chair, thinking if they could just _ talk— _ but Harrington turned, rolling his shoulders, and cleared his throat. “I am relieved to see you better, this morning,” he said stiffly, and shut the door.

“What was _ that,”  _ Billy asked the air.

“An idiot,” said Max.

“My husband, actually,” Billy remembered, and she choked on her tomato, pounding her chest and coughing. “At least, as far as the Fair Folk are concerned. Is that _ binding?  _ Do you think?”

“I—what,” she wheezed.

“She asked us to swear love to each other, and pressed our lips together.”

“And Harrington _ did  _ all this? I thought he wanted—” she trailed off, frowning.

“Did he tell you something?” Billy pressed, but she shook her head, prodding her tomatoes into mush. 

They’d finished their repast, Max oddly reserved, when something thudded against the wall so loudly they ducked, and Max ran to throw the window open with a yell. She trailed off before she formed any words, rubbing her face tiredly. “It’s your husband,” she sighed.

Billy edged to the window to see an abashed Harrington. 

“I am sorry,” he called up. “I tried pebbles, but you didn’t come to the window.”

“So you threw what, a millstone?!” Billy yelled back, distracted by the horses Harrington was holding. “Mairead?!”

“I went to the Wheeler’s for her,” Harrington began, but Billy was leaning out, calling out to her. 

“My true love!” he yelled, fingers cupped over his mouth. “My own! Most beautiful of mares!”

“She looks like a mop,” Max put in. 

Billy ignored her. “Endlessly faithful and brave!” 

Mairead shook her head, stamping her feet, and drug a laughing Harrington in a circle as she spun excitedly under Billy’s window.

Billy pulled back into Max’s room. “Harrington’s borrowed my favorite horse,” he told her, his cheeks tired with smiling. “I think he means me to go with him.”

“I think you’re right,” she said dryly, and he laughed again, kissing her cheek as he grabbed his jacket and ran out.

Mairead nosed him over, prancing in place and whuffling at his hair and face, and Billy threw his arms around her neck and breathed in her horse smell. “You’d never hit me with a desk chair,” he told her, ignoring Harrington’s pained noise.

“She missed you,” Harrington said, and Billy snorted. 

“Oh, I’m sure.” He scratched the fur between her eyes, watching her fluffy ears twitch away and back towards his voice. “I missed her.”

Harrington was looking oddly pleased with himself as Billy swung into the saddle and waited to hear the plan.

“...do you need anything else?” Harrington asked, and Billy blinked at him. 

“I don’t...think so? Not for now,” he guessed, which must have been the right answer, as Harrington grinned like a flash of sun and clicked his tongue, guiding his horse to the road through town. 

The walk was sobering. Most of the buildings along the river had lost fronts and upper stories to the wave and the giant eels, and the bridges weren’t rebuilt—Billy squinted at the flowers, wondering how long he’d been under the lake. Weeks? Months? He had no idea. Max and Harrington didn’t seem _ older.  _ It was possible there were _ more  _ waves, he thought wildly. More stolen children. Townspeople lost to her vengeance.

They had been walking for some time, when Harrington said, “Say something.”

“What would you have me say?” Billy returned, watching the road. 

“Are you—are you angry I—”

“I understand,” Billy told him, blinking back the burn in his eyes. “You had to try whatever you could, to save your friends and your town. Wheeler could hardly set out to prove humans worthy, as she’s Fair herself. And you had to use _ me,  _ or Her Ladyship wouldn’t have stopped to listen.” He laughed, squeezing the reins until the leather bit into his hands. “And it—it works out well for me, after all, I see the sun again, and breathe air. No, I’m—I’m not angry.”

“Wait,” Harrington frowned over, running a hand through his hair. “No, that’s not—”

“Now we can turn over whatever my father wanted to—to the authorities,” Billy cut him off. “Send him to jail. As the pirate queen would want.”

Steve barked a laugh, shaking his head.

“She’d be so proud of you,” Billy told him, clearing his throat and smiling over. 

“She’s the mother I wanted,” Harrington said, nodding, squaring his shoulders, and Billy snorted. “I always hoped she’d advertise for an apprentice.”

Billy’s snicker made him cough, and when he looked up, Harrington was watching him with a frown. “I am perfectly well,” Billy informed him, rolling his eyes. “You don’t need to mother me, Harr—”

“Someone should,” Harrington said, his fists clenched on the reins. “How...don’t visit her without me. And Max. We’re afraid of what you might agree to.”

Billy stared at him, then shook his head, focusing on Mairead’s ears. She swiveled them back to listen in, and he wondered, bizarrely, whether she’d report back somehow to Max. Perhaps she could talk to the boy-child’s water-horse friend, Porridge. Perhaps he was surrounded by spies. 

“What happens now?” Harrington asked, and Billy bit back a laugh.

“How should I know? I could try to charm you again. At least you’d be tethered to someone you—”

“No, don’t,” Harrington cut him off, and Billy nodded, swallowing again and again as something took up residence in his throat. Harrington glanced over, bit his lips together, and made another attempt. 

“I’m—I would never wish you drowned.”

Billy snickered. “You said. But thank you, I supp—”

“I meant it before,” Harrington interrupted, his voice rough, “—but I saw—I thought you _ were.  _ Drowning. I thought—what if I’d said that to you, and you drowned.” He drew his horse closer, and Billy startled as Harrington grabbed his shirt, pulling him into a kiss. It was warm, and clumsy—Billy bit his own lip as their horses moved beneath them—but Harrington kept leaning in for more. “Don’t ever drown,” he whispered, his breath hot against Billy’s mouth, and Billy snorted into the kiss.

“I’ll do my damndest,” he replied, and Harrington laughed. Billy leaned in, feeling Harrington’s lips soft against his own. “I-I think,” he whispered, his voice still hoarse, “—I’ll avoid the water, for a while.”

“My house is high on the hill,” Harrington whispered back, and Billy’s heart pounded. “High above the waterline.”

“Is—is that what you—do you _ want  _ me to—do you mean today, or—”

“We’re bound, now,” Harrington looked at their hands, fingers twined. “And you accepted my courting gift. Belated.” He grimaced.

“...no one I’d rather be bound to,” Billy told him, laughing, and glancing at Harrington’s face. “Wait, your gift?”

Harrington raised his eyebrows. “Mairead?”

“...this horse?” Billy verified. “Daisy, here? But she’s—she’s not yours, she’s—”

“I bought her this morning,” Harrington lifted Billy’s hand in his own, and kissed it. “I could give you gems. Or oranges. But I think you love—”

“This horse,” Billy bit back a laugh, his eyes wide and stinging. “I—I do. I love—this horse,” he whispered, his voice thick.

“She’ll love my stable,” Harrington grinned at him. “There are daisies to eat. And she’ll see you, most days.”

“The little cannibal,” Billy narrowed his eyes at Mairead, who flicked an ear at him. “But just because we—we’re bound. It doesn’t mean—I could live elsewhere. If you want—”

“Do you want to?” Harrington bit his lip, and Billy watched. “Billy. You—you’d have to get another room at the inn. I have room—I have so many rooms. Max is already bringing your things.”

“Sounds like you’re lonely, Harrington,” Billy smiled, leaning in. “I’ll come if you want me,” he said, yanking Harrington half off his horse for another kiss, and Mairead flicked him with her tail, sidling in annoyance. He ignored her. “To your house. To your bed.”

“I thought I told you not to charm me,” Harrington said, dropping his hand as they got too far apart, and Billy clenched it in Mairead’s mane again, going over what he’d said, as Mairead’s slow amble left his stomach behind in the road. “Catch me if you can!” Harrington urged his horse into a canter, at a speed Billy would have laughed at with his father’s blood stock in Australia. 

He clicked his tongue at Mairead, and she heaved a long sigh and followed at a brisk trot that jarred every bone in his body. 

Billy promised Mairead one of every vegetable he’d ever heard of if she’d only catch Harrington, but she finally slowed to a walk, flicking her ears at his pleas. When they made it to the house, Harrington called to him around the side, and the pit in his stomach that he’d forgotten a bit, arguing with his horse’s ears, widened further. “I’ve said something wrong,” Billy admitted, swinging down as Harrington took Mairead by the bridle, and turned away. “I’ve misstepped, tell me—tell me how to right this. Wait. _ Harrington.” _

The stables were just around the side, surrounded by daisies and half under an embankment of wisteria, and Billy followed, tracing over the familiar path in his head of having committed an unwritten sin. Harrington had unsaddled his own horse, and Billy helped with Mairead, discussing with her impatient head-butts whether she had _ earned  _ the promised vegetation, when she had lost Harrington entirely. She lipped at his sleeve, and hair, and then Harrington grabbed him by the shoulder, and turned him around. 

“You said you don’t have what it takes to be loved, didn’t you,” he said, squishing Billy back against Mairead, who sighed, chewing alfalfa. 

Billy nodded, letting his hands rest against Harrington’s chest. “I know why you were looking for me, I do, I know the town was in danger if you—if you couldn’t pacify her. I wasn’t—I said something—I misspoke, tell me—”

“So then it must have been your practised charm,” Harrington told him, running the backs of his fingers up Billy’s cheek, and twining them in his curls, “—if I loved you, when you said I was sleeping like a _ rotten log.” _

“...no,” Billy said, frowning back as he tried to understand Harrington’s expression. “No, I wouldn’t—”

“Or when you only knew I wasn’t dead because of the snoring. You probably use that line on everyone, when you want in their bed.”

“No,” Billy whispered, shaking his head, “—that’s—how would that even work, I didn’t—”

“You called me an idiot,” Harrington murmured, sliding the fingers of his other hand in Billy’s hair, and Billy’s vision started to blur, waiting for the clench as his head was forced down, and the thud of his skull against the stall door. He shook his head, swallowing, and shut his eyes.

After a pause with only the sound of Billy’s rapid breathing, Harrington relaxed his hands, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Billy’s lips. Billy startled, trying to keep still.

“Damnation,” Harrington yanked him close. “I’m doing everything wrong, damn it. I _ am  _ an idiot, I’m sorry, I’m not—I’m saying this the worst way—Billy,” he squeezed tighter, taking a shaky breath. “You weren’t charming me. Were you.”

Billy waited, his mind racing over their conversation while riding, and Harrington’s sudden turn in mood, and failing to find the cause of any of it. His blood pounded in his head.

“Billy,” Harrington prompted.

“I was not trying to—to influence you,” Billy tried, feeling hot tears spill and drip against Harrington’s cheek. “Not to—I didn’t—I wanted you to laugh,” he whispered, and Harrington held him tighter still. 

“I’m so sorry, your horse is going to bite me, and she’s right to do it,” Harrington said in his ear, laughing unevenly. “I’m sorry. I thought—I only meant,” he said, pulling back to rub his thumbs across the wet places under Billy’s eyes, “—you said you had to _ seduce  _ people, or they would not...feel affection. For you.”

“My whole life is a series of bribes,” Billy confessed, laughing. He wanted to blow his nose, but Harrington was still staring into his eyes.

“But that wasn’t what you were doing. Telling me those things.”

“You asked me not to...try. To win you,” Billy said, wishing he _ could. _

“You weren’t trying to charm me, when you were laughing at my pirate story,” Harrington whispered, his hands still gentle. “Throwing grapes.”

“I forgot myself,” Billy admitted, his face heating. Mairead flicked her ears.

“Pushing me under the bathwater,” Harrington listed off, and Billy groaned. “Falling asleep. You _ fell asleep  _ against my naked—”

“I _ entirely  _ forgot myself. You should have let me drown,” Billy said, groaning, and wiping his eyes.

“Never. I _ loved  _ it,” Harrington whispered, tugging at Billy’s arm, trying to see his face. “You weren’t charming me, it was real, I loved _ you.  _ I love you. I _ missed  _ you.”

“...those are terrible things to fall in love with,” Billy whispered back, raising his gaze from Harrington’s lips to his brown eyes and sincere frown. “You’re unhinged.”

“You should say something about how you loved my pirate story so much, you forgot why you were in my bed,” Harrington said against his cheek, kissing him. “That would have been the perfect time to search my house.”

Billy stiffened. “I—I did not forget _ why I was in your bed,”  _ he said flatly. “I could have called on you any afternoon, Harrington, and made an excuse to wander your house alone. I could have—I could have jimmied a window and climbed in to search. I was in your _ bed  _ because every time you smile my feet wander a few steps closer, and—” he stopped to take a shuddery breath, and Harrington stared back into his eyes, a little slack-jawed.

“—a-and?”

“You try to help,” Billy swallowed again, snorting wetly, and holding the back of his hand over his runny nose as he felt for a handkerchief. “You try again. You tried to save the children, you tried to save Barbra Holland—”

“We did save them!” 

“You went through the—that _ gauntlet  _ to save Hawkins—” Billy laughed, blowing his nose.

“Billy Hargrove,” Harrington reached out and caught his face, rubbing his thumb along the corner of Billy’s mouth. 

“You’re—you’re like a knight,” Billy laughed. “You’d—save _ any  _ child. Not only the—” he took a deep breath, “—the important children, to someone. If a child was—”

“Unimportant children?” Harrington repeated, frowning. “Of course I—there aren’t—”

“Even if no one asked you,” Billy grinned, his fingers clenching in Harrington’s. “Even if nobody cared, you’d save _ that  _ child.”

Harrington swallowed, rubbing his neck. “I think your image of me is a little flattering,” he said, grabbing Billy’s face and kissing him. His face was hot against Billy’s lips.

“You’re an idiot, remember,” Billy hissed back, “—and it’s extremely accurate. Only _ yesterday  _ you held me as the Lady of Elfland turned me into monsters, to save your town—”

“Wait, no,” Harrington pressed in for another kiss, his breath as hot as his skin, then lifted his head, his arms secure around Billy’s shoulders. “You—you’re wrong. I wasn’t—we rescued the children, and Barbra Holland. I was there for you. Maybe that’s not the—the image you have of me, but I’m—I’m not a hero. I was there for you. You’re important.”

“No,” Billy swallowed, shaking his head. “No, she—she threatened your town. You embraced a monster—”

“You were never a monster,” Harrington grinned, licking into his mouth again, warm, and a little stubbly. He needed a bath.

“I was several monsters, in a row. Maybe you need spectacles. _ I  _ need to push you into the bath again,” Billy whispered. “Shove you under.”

“Is that one of those...you mean _ shove me under,”  _ Harrington repeated, waggling his eyebrows, and Billy snorted, laughing and kissing his smile. “I was there for Billy Hargrove, my—”

“I mean _ wash  _ you,” Billy cut him off, his heart thumping, as he blinked hard, and tried not to laugh like a madman. “Haven’t you _ bathed  _ since I was taken?”

Harrington was undeterred, his tone a seductive purr. _ “Wash  _ me, you say.”

Billy tried to call him an idiot, but he was panting, his breath kissed away, and warm hands lifting his shirt from his trousers.

“I want to _ ride my unicorn,”  _ Harrington whispered, and Billy whined at the sensation of hot breath, before choking at the awful imagery.

“No,” he coughed, snickering. “Do _ not.” _

“Fly my _ raven,”  _ Harrington whispered, his voice sending a shiver up Billy’s spine even as he felt the man shaking with laughter. “My love, my Billy.”

“Stop, mercy, dear god,” Billy begged, cackling, and Harrington pressed his lips to Billy’s ear.

_ “Slay my dragon.” _

Before the ball, Billy had to wrangle Max into her dress—she loved it, but she wouldn’t stop tromping back and forth across the floor in her boots, flailing about Lucas Sinclair. “I’m going to be like Will,” she announced, as Billy cornered her between the enormous desk and the potted plant on the stand, panting.

He dropped the flowers he was supposed to braid into her hair on the desk. “I know you’ll only make me as pretty as I make you,” he growled, “—but if you don’t _ hold still,  _ I’ll forgo loveliness, and drag Harrington to bed. Who the hell is Will?”

“Will _ Byers,”  _ she said, rolling her eyes, but permitted him to shove her down into a chair and begin untying the rags holding her hair into tight curls. “He has the right of it, he doesn’t want _ anyone,  _ not girls, or boys, or—or _ beings,  _ or anyone—friends and books, he says, he’s the smartest person I know—”

“I don’t think you can decide that,” Billy said, smiling, and combing the hair off the top of her head to the side for a braid. “If that were a stance one could take, my life would be...emphatically simpler. If I could...not feel things,” he sighed at himself in the mirror over her head. 

“I’m going to do it,” she insisted. “Eugh. Maybe I’ll be like Carol instead, I’ll wait, find the right person, and carry them off over my shoulder.”

Billy grinned, remembering Robin’s appropriately birdlike squawk and helpless laughter. “Carol loved Thomas, according to—”

“I never saw it, and I refuse to believe baseless rumors,” Max hissed, making a face. “Carol Perkins is my _ idol.  _ She would never waste her heart on that _ waste of air.  _ Get more hair off my neck, I’ll be all over sweat.”

Billy raised his eyebrows, but shrugged. “As my lady wishes.”

Once she’d fixed his hair the same, and he’d donned his matching silken blue-green jacket over a cream waistcoat and breeches, they opened the door of Max’s suite to find Harrington pacing, hair wild, his much-abused cravat mostly under one ear. “No!” Max shouted, as Billy approached him. “I’ll fix it! The carriage will be here—and you aren’t permitted within an arms-length of each other, or you’ll have each other peeled and eaten like oranges—”

“She’s right, I’m afraid,” Harrington said hoarsely, his gaze flicking down to Billy’s silver-buckled shoes and tight breeches, across his shoulders, and up to his face. “I’m struck dumb, as usual.”

“Usual indeed,” Billy smiled back, tucking a curl behind his ear. Billy smoothed his waistcoat, his fingers slow over the blue silk, and saw Harrington’s fingers twitch towards him. 

As they walked down to the carriage—Max resolutely between them, somehow clomping _ loudly  _ in her satin dancing shoes—Harrington glanced over so many times he stumbled, and Billy smiled, his cheeks warm. 

Carol was driving the carriage, though she assured them she would let Max drive her fancy coach-and-four on their return later that night, particularly if she partook of any drunken fencing. 

“Or if you don’t,” Max suggested, a sparkle in her eyes as she looked over Carol’s smart fitted jacket, and glittering trousers, and groaned. “Why did I wear a dress,” she whispered.

Robin Buckley threw the door of the carriage open, hair in a messy bun with flowers, and a string of pearls long enough to smack other dancers. “Get in!” she called, and Max did so, beaming at her other idol.

“I feel replaced,” Billy said, eyeing her brilliant smile.

“I’m still not sure about that absolute...goldenrod color,” Max said, turning from her rapt appreciation of Robin’s black and white ensemble to frown at Harrington. 

“Don’t look at him,” said Robin, putting an arm around her, and smirking at Billy and Harrington.

Max leaned across and made a valiant attempt at repairing Harrington’s cravat, eyeballing him critically. “You two together will look like a window box of hyacinth and daffodils. We’ll have to shield our eyes.”

“I am Hyacinth, lover of the gods,” Billy said, stretching, and watched Harrington swallow.

“I think you’re Narcissus,” Harrington hissed back, but took advantage of Max leaning out of the window to press a quick kiss to Billy’s mouth. “May I beg a dance?”

“I reserve only one from you, for my sister,” Billy whispered back, feeling his cheeks heat as their fingers intertwined and locked.


End file.
